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were both flushed and heavily
perspiring by the time we squeezed down the hallway and opened the
door to the junk room.
    My muscles shook as we levered the mirror
upright. Even Kirk was breathing hard. We half scooted, half slid
the mirror inside — by then I didn’t care if we scraped off a grand
or so of ormolu — leaning it back against the wall. I stepped into
the hall; Kirk backed out after me, and slammed the door shut.
    “You realize next we’re going to have to
drag this bastard upstairs ?” I said.
    Kirk nodded grimly.
    We were silent as he turned the old
fashioned key in the lock. As I heard the tumbler click over, I
felt a sense of immense relief. Maybe Kirk did too because he let
out a long breath and then glanced at me almost
self-consciously.
    “Now maybe we can all get some sleep,” he
said.
    “You do seem to appreciate a good night’s
rest.”
    “Damn straight.”
    That was the last thing either of us said as
we climbed up the stairs again. As we reached the ground level,
Kirk said, “Let me know when you figure out a new home for the Lady
of Shalott. I’ll be happy to drive her wherever she wants to
go.”
    “The Lady of Who?”
    “Tennyson. Never mind. I don’t think they
were teaching Tennyson when you were in school.” Kirk peeled off,
moving down the hall toward his rooms. “Just let me know when we
can begin deportation. I’ll be happy to clear my schedule.”
    “I’m hoping I found a buyer, but how fast we
can move the mirror out of here probably depends on the
snowstorm.”
    Kirk called without looking back, “Yep. Keep
me posted.”
    I watched him go into his rooms. The door
closed with finality behind him.

CHAPTER SIX

     
    M uted and random
guitar chords infiltrated the floorboards and insinuated their way
into my consciousness. I put my pen down and rubbed my eyes.
    The notes were too irregular and aimless to
qualify as melody, and that was just as well. I couldn’t listen to
music anymore. Funny how a particular arrangement of flats, sharps
and naturals could bring back a forgotten point in time, could
recreate the way light fell across Alan’s sleeping face, the scent
of his aftershave, the sound of his laughter, the brush of his hand
on my bare skin. Recall it all so immediately, so intensely that
the return to present time felt like a punch to the heart.
    Already his voice was starting to fade from
my memory. How could that be when I’d known him all my life? When
I’d spent more time talking to him than anyone else in the
world.
    I pinched the bridge of my nose hard. No
good thinking of that now. That way lay madness. Literally, some
would say. Lowering my hand, I stared blearily at the nearest
clock, this one the green and gold Chinoiserie long case clock in
the corner. Eleven forty-five.
    That made nearly seven hours I’d been poring
over Great-Uncle Winston’s ledgers. And I had little enough to show
for it. I’d been looking for some mention of the mirror, in fact, I
was sure I’d seen a notation on it somewhere, but I couldn’t find
it now. Presumably my uncle had his own system of record keeping
beyond scribbling every thought on any available scrap of paper.
No, that wasn’t fair. There were decades-worth of neatly filled in
ledgers, but in the last years of his life, Uncle Winston seemed to
have grown noticeably less meticulous.
    A cocktail napkin that looked like an
antique itself read: Victrola Cab @1920. Carved finger pulls. No
TT. Red face "on" indicator. 48"l x 48.5"h x 25"w. There was a
lot of that kind of thing.
    Hell. Might as well call it a night. It was
moot anyway. There was no offer anyone could make me for that
mirror that was too low. At this point, I was willing to bribe
someone to come and take the thing away.
    I closed the ledger and pushed back my
chair. A hot drink would be nice. An Irish coffee or cocoa laced
with peppermint schnapps. But there was nothing like that in my
uncle’s cupboards, and even if there had been, I didn’t