Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 02 Read Free Page B

this way then she'd retrace her tracks—-and drove to the bottom of a
hill, where one sign identified the crossroad as Amsterdam County 4 and another
said GLASTONBURY: 6.
                 As
she followed the winding two-lane road, Winter got intermittent glimpses of the
river, and more information floated to the surface of her battered memory. The
grandiosely named little town of Glastonbury, New York, dated from the
nineteenth century, and served the local college as well as Amsterdam County
locals such as herself. There was a supermarket, a post office, even a small
movie theater, though most people preferred to drive to the multiplexes in the
malls south of here.
                 It
was the sort of thing that anyone might know, particularly anyone who had
rented a farmhouse and come to stay for an extended period, and the ability to
remember such trivia was obscurely comforting. She was dressed, she was driving
a car; if she really were . . . sick . . . she wouldn't be able to do these
things, would she?
                 When
Winter reached the town, she found it had a haunting familiarity, as if she'd
been here before, but the memory was elusive. County 4 had turned into Main
Street, and as Winter drove down it, she saw bright posters in the windows of
the business: FREE WILL—AN EVENING OF SHAKESPEARE SCENES AND SONGS BY THE
TAGHKANIC DRAMA DEPARTMENT.
                 Students
from the nearby college were everywhere at this time of day, identifiable by
the universal symbols of age and backpack, trendily pierced or equally trendily
grungy, but carefree in a fashion Winter could somehow not associate with
herself. While stopped for a light, she watched one pair wistfully as they
proceeded up the street holding hands. The boy's hair fell to shoulder length
and the girl's was shaved to a spiky buzz; both were dressed identically in
work boots and overalls that seemed about eleven sizes too big, and they were
obliviously in love.
                Winter watched them until they
rounded the corner, and then forced herself to concentrate on the signal and
the other drivers. This outing was as much to prove she could cope as it was
for anything else. She could not afford to daydream.
                 The
supermarket was right on Main Street; and she pulled into the lot and parked
with a sense of relief and growing triumph. She climbed out of the
car—remembering to lock it—and stood in the warm afternoon sunlight, looking
down at the list of errands in her hands.
                 Groceries first. And then . . . the butcher,
the baker, the candlestick maker. . . Winter thought giddily.
                 Her
destinations were not quite that archaic, though it hardly made sense to buy
grocery-store bread with an organic bakery right up the block. Half an hour
later, the first part of her self-imposed assignment completed, Winter emptied
her grocery cart into the BMW's trunk: crisp clean brown paper bags containing
cans of soup, fresh fruit and fruit juice, and all the other household
necessities she'd only realized she needed when she'd seen them on the
supermarket shelves. She felt almost jaunty as she locked the trunk again and
headed for the bakery; it was just around the next corner, the cashier had given
her directions, speaking to her as if it were a perfectly normal thing to ask
for such directions. As if everything were all right.
                 On
impulse, Winter stopped at a liquor store as she passed it, debating between
Bordeaux and Nouvelle Beaujolais as though such questions could really matter.
She finally settled on a bottle of white Burgundy and a trendy California Zinfandel, and
proceeded up the street with her purchases cradled in one arm. She found the
bakery without trouble, and bought a dozen raisin scones and a round loaf of
seven-grain bread that looked as though it contained enough vitamins to nourish
the entire Mighty Morphin Power