He realized that the dog Bella would make it ridiculously easy. A few judicious appearances at night—a few unaccountable occurrences—a slight poltergeist atmosphere—they would go fast enough, and the house would be closed again, and he would be left in peace among his own belongings, to work out whatever time — endless time — would bring to him.

Having come to the top of the first flight, he found himself pausing before the closed door of the blue room — the best guest room — the room Alice always had when she came to visit. Obedient to some irresistible necessity, careless of consequences, he turned the knob noiselessly and went in.

A night-light burned on the table by the bed, where a girl-child lay asleep, her lashes dark against pale cheeks, her fine golden brows a little drawn, her wide sweet mouth tightly closed, as though even in slumber she was beset by some unchildlike worry. He saw by the length of her, from the square, determined chin to the small mound made by her feet, that she must be well into her teens, for all the delicacy of the bare arm flung above her head, and the natural silk of her fair hair.

Fascinated, soothed, and possessed by a deep contentment he had never known before, he hung over the bed watching her breath come and go as she slept. Infinitely helpless she looked to him—defenseless, troubled, and pitiably young—Sabrina, the invalid, who had gone off to sleep so nicely.

And that futile woman with the dog, and the irate old man in the study doorway—were they all she had to look after her, and why hadn’t they got at whatever it was that oppressed her and wiped it out? Why wasn’t somebody sitting with her, if she was ill? Suppose she woke alone and was frightened. Suppose she called out. No one could hear....

In her sleep she stirred and smiled, and groped with one thin hand for his, where it rested on the pillow as he bent above her. Incredulously he felt the warmth of her clinging fingers. But how could that be, when he could feel neither hunger nor fatigue.... Journey’s end.

He knelt beside the bed, her warm fingers cradled in his.

CHAPTER TEN

SABRINA woke to a darkened room, but the edges of the curtains were gilded with sunlight. Her bedside clock said ten minutes to nine. She slid out onto the floor without slippers or dressing-gown and went to pull back the curtains. The garden looked delicious in the morning light, its dominant color the singing blue of the first delphiniums in the border.

For a few minutes, kneeling on the window seat with her elbows on the sill, she wondered why it felt like such a special day, even more special than birthdays or Christmas. Something heavenly seemed about to happen.

Then she remembered the dream.