‘Certainly I’m real,’ said the lady with the dark eyes, sounding amused. ‘I always have been real, Lucy. And since Michael’s phone call half an hour ago, I have been watching for you. But I think we should talk about all this in civilized comfort. Come inside, and tell Michael to bring your friend in as well.’
The inside of the house had the same tranquil feeling as the village, and the lady whom Lucy could not quite think of as her grandmother, but whom she could not quite think of as Lucretia von Wolff either, led the way into a room at the back of the house. There was a low ceiling and an old brick fireplace with pleasantly scented logs burning in the hearth, and there were deep comfortable armchairs. The curtains were partly drawn against the encroaching darkness, but it was possible to see a large garden with lawns and old-fashioned flowers, and chairs where you could sit on summer afternoons. Exactly the kind of house and garden a very old lady might be expected to have. Totally conventional and predictable. But if this really was Lucretia von Wolff, she had never been either conventional or predictable.
Lucretia von Wolff. Lucy could not stop looking at her. Michael and Francesca were in the room as well, but Lucy could not think about anyone except the slender figure in the chair by the hearth. She said, ‘I don’t understand this. You – you’re dead.’ And then at once, ‘I’m sorry, that was an outstandingly stupid thing to say, never mind sounding rude. It’s just that – you’re supposed to have been dead for over fifty years. All the reports say you died in Ashwood Studios that day—You killed yourself. There were witnesses!’ This came out in a confused blur of annoyance and bewilderment, with, under it all, an unfolding of delighted hope, because this was the real heart of the legend; this was the imperious baroness, the adventuress who had snapped her fingers at Viennese society, and had strewn lovers and scandals half across Europe. I’m going to know her, thought Lucy. After I’ve sorted all this out, I’m going to be able to talk to her. Like touching a fragment of the past. Oh, don’t let this be a dream, please let this be really happening.
‘My dear Lucy,’ said the dark-eyed lady, ‘I spent a large part of my life spinning illusions for people. Do you really think I wasn’t capable of spinning that last illusion at Ashwood Studios that day?’
Michael said, ‘We’ll explain everything, Lucy. Alice will tell you it all. She tells a story better than anyone I’ve ever known. And she still loves an audience, even after all these years.’
They smiled at one another, and Lucy felt a sharp and rather shameful stab of jealousy. But then one of the ring-clad hands came out to her. ‘I hope, Lucy, that you’ll call me Alice, as Michael does,’ said the lady who loved an audience. ‘I really cannot support the title of grandmother, you know.’ For the first time Lucy heard very clearly the baroness’s voice. Half imperious, half mischievous. Underneath it all hugely enjoying being an enfant terrible. And she’s drawing me into that charm and that warmth she shares with Michael, thought Lucy. I think she might deliberately be weaving a spell, but I think it’s probably a good spell, and I don’t give a hoot anyway. Alice, that’s what she wants me to call her. It’s rather nice. Tennyson and Looking Glasses – I knew this was Lewis Carroll territory!
‘And we’ll have something to drink, in fact I think we should have champagne,’ said Alice briskly. ‘And if you can stay on for supper, that would be best of all. You might not want to do that, but I hope you will. All of you, I mean.’ She turned her attention to Francesca. ‘Do stay, Francesca. I’d like it if you would.’