The Dark Glamour (666 Park Avenue 2)

folded body.
    I quit,
bounced hollowly around her brain.
I was there, and I just let it go.
    But all her energy was gone; she couldn’t stir her muscles to sit up or even roll over to switch off the lamp. Instead, her mind swam downward towards darkness, forcing her into a sleep that was more like a temporary death.

Twenty-one
    J ANE WAS IN her old farmhouse in Saint-Croix-sur-Amaury, but Gran was nowhere to be found. Jane moved through the house, running her fingertips over the depressing oil paintings along the stairway, and then across the round kitchen table with its bouquet of dead daisies in their familiar blue-glazed vase. She wanted to call out for Gran – it would have been the most natural thing to do – but her vocal cords wouldn’t obey. She left the kitchen, an added sense of urgency hurrying her steps along, and moved quickly towards the living room. The hallway felt almost too short; she was afraid of arriving at her destination and wished for a longer delay, but the entrance to the living room was just ahead, and there was no avoiding what was waiting for her inside.
    She tried to brace herself for what she would find, but it was hard to concentrate when Malcolm was banging on the farmhouse door. She tried, but it seemed that every step that brought her closer to the living room also made the pounding outside more urgent.
Can’t he just let me do this?
she wondered angrily.
He’s the whole reason I’m here.
    She wanted to go in and see Gran, but the knocking wouldn’t let her think. She hesitated between the entrance to the living room and the front door; maybe it would be easier to see what Malcolm wanted first, then go and visit Gran.
But I need to see her,
she fretted anxiously; there was definitely a reason why she needed to see Gran before she let Malcolm in. But with the racket at the front door, it was impossible to remember why.
    Come in,
she whispered.
    ‘Come in,’ she mumbled out loud, rolling over and shoving her face into her soft hotel pillow.
    Then she sat bolt upright. The knocking came again at the door to her suite, and she realized that she had at least a few seconds to prepare for whoever might walk through the door. She swept the stuffed bunny underneath the frame of the bed, tugging the edges of the comforter down carefully to make sure it was covered. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and kicked the box containing the rest of Annette’s things into the closet, pausing briefly to pull a terrycloth Lowell robe over her rumpled black dress.
    By the time she reached the door of her suite, the knocking was as loud as it had been in her dream. She yanked it open. It wasn’t Malcolm on the other side (of
course it’s not,
she realized belatedly, with a pang of regret); it was André.
    He seemed almost as startled to see her as she was to see him, and she wondered just how dishevelled she looked after the previous night’s marathon of stress and magic. But he recovered quickly, smiling his predator’s smile and holding up a bottle of Pommery for her to see. ‘I thought I might invite myself to join you for brunch,’ he explained courteously. ‘So I come bearing gifts.’ His smile stayed in place, but his eyes flickered curiously over her shoulder, sweeping as much of the suite as he could see. His body slanted forward slightly, and she could tell he was eager to get inside for a better look.
    I must have really rattled him with the strange behaviour last night.
He’d been suspicious of her since he had discovered that she was a witch; of course he wouldn’t believe a lame upset-stomach excuse. But she had hidden the evidence of her real purpose in going to the Dorans’ house, so she smiled as convincingly as she could and stepped aside to let him in.
    ‘I’ll call room service, but do we need orange juice or is there some in your kitchen?’ he asked, his voice fading as he made his way into the living room.
    ‘I don’t have any,’ Jane replied, following him slowly. The full details of the night before were starting to filter in to her surprised brain. ‘But I’m afraid I don’t really have time for room service, either. I have to make an unexpected trip today, so we should probably just save that bottle for when I get back.’
    The unmistakable pop of the champagne’s cork startled her, and she flinched back into the hallway. André, as graceful and unconcerned as ever, fished two flutes out of the bar cabinet, filled them with careful,