Read Mariana for Free Online Page A

against the back wall, and an antique clothespress in one corner, the room was completely empty.
    'Well, that's odd,' I said out loud.
    'What's odd?' my brother called back.
    'This furniture isn't mine,' I told him, moving back across the hall to the front bedroom. "They must have put my studio things in one of these rooms instead. There should be an easel and my drawing board and that great ugly chair. I just can't imagine where ...'
    My voice trailed off as I rummaged amid the boxes, and my brother's shadow moved past me into the hall.
    'Julia,' he said, a moment later. 'Come here.'
    I found him standing in the doorway of my studio, hands on hips. 'Now,' he said, as I joined him, 'what do you see?'
    I looked, blinked hard, and looked again. It was all there—the easel, the studio furniture, the untidy boxes of paints and brushes and paper ... everything, just as it should be. Moreover, there was no sign to be seen of the bed or clothespress.
    'You haven't been nipping into the cooking sherry, have you?' Tom joked.
    'But, Tom.' I shook my head, bewildered. 'These things weren't here a minute ago, honestly.' My brother looked down at me, his expression concerned, and when he finally spoke, his voice had lost its mocking edge. 'Listen,' he said, 'why don't we leave the rest of the tour until later? You must be exhausted after this morning.'
    'I'm not crazy.'
    'Of course you're not. Feel up to a pot of tea?'
    I trailed unhappily after him down the stairs.
    "That room was empty when I looked.'
    'I'm not saying it wasn't. I'm not saying that you didn't see what you said you saw. I just think there's probably a good reason why you saw what you said you saw.'
    'I see,' I said. 'Such as?'
    Tom lifted his shoulders in a shrug. 'I don't know. You're tired, you've been pushing yourself too hard.... When did you get to bed last night?'
    'Late,' I admitted. 'But I can't believe that has anything to do with ...'
    'And what time were you up this morning?'
    'Just after six. But ...'
    'There you are,' he said, raising his hands to emphasize his point. 'You're not getting enough sleep.'
    I was familiar with my brother's moods, I waited until the tea was brewed and we were sitting facing each other across the kitchen table, before I dared to contradict him.
    'As a matter of fact,' I told him firmly, 'I am getting plenty of sleep. And I'm not tired, honestly. I've not done any real work since I moved in here, I've only unpacked a few boxes.'
    'You look tired.'
    'Tom'—I smiled at his obstinacy—'listen to me. I am very well rested. I've been sleeping like a log. And dreaming every night, come to that.'
    'Really? That's rather unusual for you, isn't it? I thought you hardly ever dreamed.'
    'Maybe it's the country air.'
    'What sort of dreams?' 'I really can't remember most of them,' I said, frowning slightly as I drank my tea. 'One of them was about a comet, I think. Yes, that was it... there were two comets, one right after the other, and everyone was saying how that meant something terrible was going to happen. What does Freud have to say about comet dreams?'
    'Not Freud.' Tom shook his head. 'Jung. And I really haven't the foggiest idea. I didn't study psychology. Which reminds me'—he sat forward suddenly—'Rod Denton is giving a dinner party next Saturday at his house in London.'
    'How can my comet dream possibly remind you of Rod Demon's dinner party?'
    'Rod did study psychology at college,' Tom explained. 'Among other things.’ Roderick Denton had come down from Oxford at the same time as my brother, but had been destined for rather more worldly pursuits. He had married the daughter of an earl, inherited a house in Belgravia, and was doing quite well for himself in the financial world.
    'Anyhow,' Tom continued, 'his parties are usually rather fun. I thought you might care to come with me. Might do you good, getting out for a day.'
    'You make it sound as though I've been cooped up here for weeks."
    'I only thought'—he shot me a dark,