Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 02 Read Free Page A

Fall
River from the accountant who paid her monthly bills. Winter glanced at one of them,
but the rows of numbers, of transfers and debits, were a meaningless jumble.
                 More
real were the wads of twenties and fifties crammed at the bottom of the
bag—enough to take care of any conceivable immediate expense-— crumpled loose
in the bottom of the purse like so much play money.
                 Play money. That's what it was to us. We
were like kids with a Monopoly set — none
of it was real to us, she thought, clutching the small pink stuffed
elephant that had been at the bottom of her Lexington brief, along with a Wall Street Journalwdch last year's date and clutter of things almost unfamiliar to her now. Her years
at Arkham Miskatonic King
were solid but curiously distant, as if out of a particularly vivid book she'd
read and enjoyed. She'd lived fast and high, bought the usual toys and paid for
the usual perks, and none of it was unique to her, somehow. It was the sort of life
that any of the traders could have had, as unindividuated as the life of a drone in a hive.
                 And we thought we were so special, and all
along we were just a funny kind of money-making robot. Wind us up and we'd
trade, and trade, and trade, until...
                 But
Winter still wasn't sure what had taken her from the floor of the New York
Stock Exchange, to Fall River , to here. Maybe she'd just gotten . . . tired? People did, after all.
Burnout was the commonest reason for leaving the Street.
                 But
not Winter's reason. Even if she didn't know what her reason was, she knew that
much.
                 At
last she could delay no longer without acknowledging to herself that she was
running away from the outside world. She changed her scruffy jeans and worn-out
sweater for something more suitable to an appearance in town. Although Glastonbury isn't much of a town,
as far as I can remember.
                 The
fashionable, expensive woman in the gray cashmere sweater and Harris tweed
skirt who stared back at Winter from her bathroom mirror was gaunt and
hollow-eyed until Winter painted the illusion of health into her skin with
cosmetics labeled Chanel and Dior. Expensive
accessories for a lifestyle she had once worshiped with all her heart, that
now more and more seemed a silly and expensive sort of mistake. But the rouge,
and the Paloma Picasso earrings, and the thin sparkle
of Elsa Peretti "Diamonds By The Yard" all
helped disguise the sleepless nights filled with fear.
                 This
time Winter made it all the way to the woodshed, although the open space around
her seemed vast and threatening and she felt as if the sky would fall and crush
her. She ducked into the shed with a tiny cry of triumph, and rested her
forehead for a moment against the BMW's white lacquered roof.
                 Maybe Chicken Little was right. It's a
possibility. Her heart was beating far too fast, and for a moment Winter
considered turning back—she'd done enough for one day; no one could ask her to
do more. . . .
                 Except me. I can ask me to do more. . . .
                 And
she was running out of time.
                Winter wasn't certain where that
conviction came from, but it was enough to galvanize her into unlocking the car
and settling inside. When she put the key into the ignition, she had one wild
pang of panic—suppose it didn't start? suppose something terrible
happened?—but fought past it. She had to know if she could survive out here in
the real world. If she could not manage as simple a task as going into town for
supplies, then she had better call Fall River and tell them where to find her.
                 And
learn to live surrounded by the baffling and terrifying deaths.
                 Winter
turned left out of the driveway almost at random—if Glas-tonbury wasn't