“That door really does blend in,” she said. “How did you find it in the first place?”
“Daggett.” He twisted her surname into a curse. “Get up. I’m leaving, and so are you.”
She sighed. “When will you be practicing tomorrow?”
“The question you should be asking is, ‘When will you let me come back?’ The answer is the first Saturday of next month.”
“Hey! You promised—”
“—nothing about frequency,” he said, looking pleased with himself. “What a pity.”
“I’m coming back tomorrow whether you like it or not.”
He pulled on his duster. “I don’t believe you’re in a position to bargain.”
“I’m in an excellent position”—she gestured at the chair where she sat—“and I’m staying in it until you agree.”
“It might have slipped your mind,” he said, putting his gloves on, “but you’ve had a head injury. You can’t just sit here all night.”
“Oh, can’t I?” She jerked forward to poke him in the arm. The effect was spoiled by her head, which picked that moment to touch off a bit of vertigo. “Gah...”
Hartgrave used the ill-timed distraction to lift her from the chair by her elbows. He’d hustled her halfway to the door before she had the wherewithal to attempt an escape. By then she suspected that if she overcame his iron grip, gravity would take over. Righteous stands would have to wait until standing was an option.
“I’m taking you to the campus clinic,” he said. “Right now.”
Probably a good idea.
. . . . .
After it came out that she lived alone, the nurse in charge made her stay overnight and most of the day for observation. It was nearly dinnertime when she trudged home to her drafty Cape Cod a block off campus, finally judged to be exhibiting no symptoms of lasting brain trauma.
Sunday morning she exhibited what she had to admit could be classified as a major symptom: She went back to Hartgrave’s hidden lair.
It took some effort in the dim light just to find the door again—she had to run her hands along the wall until she felt it. She knocked as requested. No answer, but Hartgrave would hardly open it with a smile and a hearty “come in,” would he? With a tingling thrill of excitement, she turned the doorknob, tugged the old door until it gave way and ventured into the room.
Empty.
It was the first time she’d been disappointed not to see him. She thought of sticking around, but she couldn’t waste hours waiting. If she were spending hours on anything, it would have to be grading. Perhaps she could do both at once, assuming she could get back in a second time ... Undecided, she turned to the door.
GO AWAY, it said.
She blinked. The message hung just above eye level, letters large, with a smaller sentence written below: “You won’t see me here for days.” This filled her with the perverse desire to stay for days, just to show him.
She considered her options.
Let it go and wait for the appointed time.
A reasonable thought.
No, that’s exactly what he wants you to do.
A less reasonable thought.
He’s probably hiding here somewhere! Don’t rest until you find him!
The least reasonable thought of all. But it aligned perfectly with her inclinations.
The room had few places for a person to hide, particularly a six-foot-something person. She looked behind the stone table, under the bed and chair and finally in a tall wardrobe nearby, which held neither Hartgrave nor an entrance to another dimension but did satisfy her curiosity about whether he owned any brightly colored clothing. (No.) She discovered a small, ancient-looking bathroom in one corner—to her surprise—but he wasn’t there, either.
