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chande-liers hung above the great hallway, each with cream-colored candles stuck in a silver ring and surrounded by crystal teardrops. Astral lamps burned at eye level every twenty feet, the flames throwing enough light to shrink the shadows along the wood trim. Rows of three solid maple doors lined both walls, and oil landscapes were set at intervals between the rooms. The art was of high quality, al of manor scenery. One of the paintings was of the wooden bridge that Mason and the guests had crossed, and the image brought back memories of his light-headed panic. It, like the other paintings, bore no artist's signature.
    Huge portraits of Korban, with different lighting ef-fects than the one in the foyer but possessing the oblig-atory scowl of the era, hung at each end of the hall.
    "Nice paintings," he said to Lilith.
    "Mr. Korban lived for his art. We all did."
    "Oh, are you one of us?" He meant it as humor. Either he was too worried about his imminent failure as a sculptor or she was preoccupied, but the joke fell as flat as canvas.
    "I used to be," Lilith replied.
    They passed an open door and Mason looked inside. Jefferson Spence's bulk was overwhelming a wooden swivel chair as the writer unpacked papers and spread them across a desk. Miss Seventeen was nowhere in sight. Mason noticed that the room only had one bed, then quickly looked away, chiding himself for being nosy. Lilith led him before a door at the end of the hall. It creaked as she pushed it open. She stood aside so Mason could enter, her eyes on the floor.
    "Thanks," Mason said. His battered suitcase, a Samp-sonite with electrician's tape holding the handle together, was already inside the room. The suite was large with a king-sized wooden poster bed, cherry desks, matching chestnut bureaus, and round-topped nightstands. Tall rectangular windows were set in the south and west wals, and Mason realized the room would get sunlight throughout the day. That was a luxury at a place that had no electricity. The setting sun suffused the room with a honey-colored warmth.
    "Wow. This must be one of the better rooms," he said.
    The maid stil waited outside, as if afraid to breathe the room's air.
    "It's the master suite," she said. "It used to be Ephram Korban's bedroom."
    "Is that why his portrait's on the wal?" Mason said, nodding to the painting that hung above the bedroom's large fireplace. It was a smaler version of the painting that hung in the foyer, of a slightly younger Korban. The eyes, though, were just as black and bottomless, and the faintest hint of a smile played across those so-cruel lips.
    "Miss Mamie chose this room especially for you," Lilith said without emotion. "She said you've come highly recommended."
    Mason tossed his satchel on the bed. The tools clinked duly together. "I hope I can live up to her expectations."
    "Nobody has yet." Lilith still waited outside the door. If she was joking, there was no sign of it in her wan face.
    "Uh, I don't know much about places like this," he said, putting a hand in his pocket, falling back on his
    "Aw, shucks" routine. He'd learned that people were more forgiving if they thought he was a dumb hick be-cause their expectations were lower. He achieved the same effect with his southern drawl, though that was mostly unintentional. He secretly suspected his success at Adderly had been due to the sophisticated instruc-tors'
    amazement that a country rube could break the confines of his heritage and actually compete in the ranks of the cultural elite. "You might think I'm stupid, but am I supposed to tip you?"
    "No, of course not. And Miss Mamie would kill me if you tried." Lilith managed a smile, relieved at being dismissed. She was even attractive, in a nervous, pallid way, like a princess whose head was due to roll. She wasn't as pretty as the stuck-up woman with the cyan eyes, but Lilith probably wasn't contemptuous of artists if she herself was one.
    Lilith pointed to the door on the west wall. "The bath-room's