The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx Read Online Free PDF Page A

decelerating sweep of the blades as he came around to open the door for his passenger. He wore the brown leather flying jacket and scruffy peaked cap affected by military pilots half a century before, but sunlight flashed briefly off thoroughly modern, mirrored sun glasses.
    The man who alighted from the passenger seat was pale and slender by comparison, with silky fair hair going thin at the top and brushed back at the sides. By his dress, he might have been anything from a successful barrister to a university professor. The well-cut topcoat suggested the former, though it might have been within the budget of a very senior university lecturer; the suit beneath it spoke more of Saville Row than the halls of academia.
    In fact, Francis Raeburn dabbled in both areas of enterprise, and had made his fortune in neither. When pressed as to the source of his not inconsiderable wealth, it was his wont merely to smile and look inscrutable, murmuring vaguely about prudent investments, an indulgent bank manager, and the hint of family money.
    The light grey eyes were even more inscrutable than usual as he stood motionless on the lawn, silently contemplating the Gothic grandeur of the house. Behind him, the pilot stretched back into the cockpit to retrieve an expensive leather document case, which he handed over to his employer with a deferential nod.
    “Anything else, Mr. Raeburn?”
    The man called Raeburn shook his head distractedly and tucked the case under his arm, his attention now focused on the upper reaches of the tower.
    “Not for now, Mr. Barclay. Consider yourself at liberty for the next hour or so, but don’t wander too far. In fact, you might head down to the kitchen and see if Cook can provide something for that insatiable sweet tooth of yours.”
    At his glance and bemused half-smile, the pilot grinned and sketched his employer an appreciative salute.
    “Yes, sir, Mr. Raeburn!”
    As the man leaned back into the chopper to make certain everything was properly switched off, Raeburn set off briskly across the lawn toward the house. The front door opened as he approached, a man in what looked like a white monk’s robe greeting him with a nod that was almost a bow. Without speaking, the man ushered him respectfully through the entrance lobby and into a long corridor panelled in oak. Off the corridor to the left, an interior door gave access to a small cloakroom, where another open-fronted robe of white wool was banging next to a full-length mirror.
    Raeburn shrugged himself out of his topcoat and suit-jacket, handing them into the care of the waiting acolyte before sitting briefly on a small stool to remove his shoes and socks. He donned the white robe over his shirt and trousers, retrieved his document case, then allowed the acolyte to lead him back out into the main corridor.
    A steep turnpike stair at the far end took them up to a circular landing with doors on two sides. The acolyte knocked at the south door, waited for a word of acknowledgement from within, then admitted Raeburn to the opulent confines of a Victorian library.
    The south wall of the library was dominated by a great bay window, its upper panels worked in stained glass and grey patterned grisaille. Sunlight spilling in from outside laid jewel-like splashes of color on the floor across a rich array of Oriental rugs. Where the walls were not lined with bookshelves, a patterned paper of crimson and gold echoed drapes of a heavy, antique damask swagged to either side of the bay.
    At the center of the room, silhouetted dark against the bright window, stood a broad mahogany library table, its scrolled legs decorated in ornamental boulIe-work. Seated at the head of the table, in the deep velvet comfort of a heavily-padded wing-back armchair, was the old man Raeburn had come to see.
    “Head-Master,” Raeburn murmured, inclining his head briefly but never taking his eyes from the other man’s.
    After a moment’s penetrating scrutiny, the old man lifted a