Naked Once More by Elizabeth Peters Page B

of her work. She lived long enough to witness its astonishing success and to hear considerable speculation about the sequel. It is only natural, I suppose, that she would take measures to ensure that if she were unable to write the sequel, her successor should be worthy of the task.”
    His pause seemed to invite a comment. “Yes,” Jacqueline said thoughtfully. “It was a natural thing to do—if you had good reason to believe you wouldn’t be able to do it yourself.”
    “Alas, she had reason,” St. John said in a low voice. “Why she did it we will never know.… Oh, dear. Craig, I do wish you hadn’t…” He covered his eyes with one pudgy hand.
    “Sorry,” Craig said.
    He didn’t sound sorry.
    After a brief pause he went on, “A codicil to Kathleen’s will set up the conditions to which I have referred. If a sequel were ever contemplated, qualified writers were to be invited to submit a brief outline. The one corresponding most closely to the outline Kathleen herself left was to be selected.”
    “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Jacqueline said, half to herself. “It certainly suggests…” She didn’t finish the sentence, and Craig chose to ignore it.
    “Nor have I. I’m not even certain that a court would consider it legally binding. It’s a pity, in a way, that it won’t be so tested.”
    Jacqueline exchanged a glance with St. John. For once—perhaps the only time—they were in full accord. Only a lawyer could regret the loss of a long legal quibble, with its inevitable delays and expense.
    “It certainly won’t be tested if I have anything to say about it,” St. John declared. “Even if—er—other considerations were not involved, I am more than ready to accede to my poor dear sister’s last request.”
    Mrs. Darcy showed no sign of having heard the conversation, much less being affected by it. But Sherri looked up from her plate and fixed a stare of pure dislike, not on the lawyer, but on her half-brother.
    Jacqueline decided to demonstrate some of her famous tact. “It’s all terribly exciting and thrilling,” she declared. “Just like a contest. I declare, I can hardly wait to begin. Of course the burning question will be, what happened to Ara? The last scene in the book describes Hawkscliffe and his men looking down from the mountaintop across the Plains of Memory. The night before, Ara had slept in his arms, for the first time. He awoke to find her gone. Has she left him for his rival, Rogue? Has she been kidnapped by the emissaries of the Dark God? Has she followed an Illusion and fallen to her death? Of course we know she isn’t dead. She can’t be, she—”
    “She isn’t dead.” Even Jacqueline the Imperturbable jumped. It was like hearing a wax doll speak. The voice was like that of a doll, high-pitched and squeaky, but it was filled with human passion. “She is not dead! I never believed she was. She’s gone away, I don’t know why, why would she leave her own mother…”
    The old lady half-rose and threw her fork at St. John. It missed him by a mile, but he ducked and raised his arms in front of his face. Mrs. Darcy sank back into her chair and began pounding on the table. The spectacle was more pitiful than horrifying; her feeble strength was too inadequate to express the intensity of her emotion.
    The kitchen door burst open and Marjorie hurried in. Sherri ran to her mother’s side. Mrs. Darcy took wild, ineffectual jabs at both of them.
    Jacqueline leaned across the table and captured one of her flailing hands. “She’ll be back, Mrs. Darcy. She loves you very much. Don’t worry, everything is going to be just fine.”
    The scene froze as if it had been sprayed with an instant fixative. The only thing that moved was the swinging door to the kitchen, slapping back and forth in diminishing arcs.
    “Yes, of course,” Mrs. Darcy said calmly. “Thank you, my dear. You’ll bring her back, won’t you? She’s the one, St. John. I want this one. She