The Society of S Read Online Free PDF Page B

didn’t dream, and didn’t waken until morning, when the house came alive with the sounds of floorboards creaking, doors banging, water rushing through pipes, and a petulant voice saying, “But it’s my turn.”
    I had the lower bunk (Bridget was spending the night in one of the others’ rooms), and I looked up to see that Kathleen wasn’t in bed. Then I lay back again, thinking about the night before. I didn’t want to think about the mirror yet, so I focused on the movie. It was the way the vampires moved, I decided, that had got to me. None of the other stuff — the sleeping in coffins, the crosses and garlic, the stakes in the heart — had bothered me at all. But the effortless glide, the graceful sweep to and from rooms, reminded me of my father.
    Kathleen came in, fully dressed. “You have to get up, Ari,” she said. “Otherwise we’ll miss the horses.”

    Kathleen said she knew me well enough now not to ask if I’d ever been to the track before. “And I’ll bet you can’t ride a bicycle, either. Am I right, Ms. Sheltered Life?”
    “Sad but true,” I said.
    The morning was bright but clouds of fog misted the air, cold against my bare arms. We moved briskly down the street. At six a.m. almost no one was stirring.
    “This is the best part of living in Saratoga Springs,” she said. “You’ll see.”
    We walked for several blocks past small houses — modern rectangles, most of them, nothing like the grand Victorians in my neighborhood — then cut across a wide lawn.
    “The racetrack is over there.” Kathleen waved her hand toward more fog. “Here’s where they exercise the horses.”
    She led us along a white fence. A few other people were standing, sipping coffee, waiting for something.
    We heard them before we saw them. Soft thuds of hooves on turf, like muted drumbeats, and then they emerged from the smoky fog, running flat out, jockeys curved low along their necks. Two white horses, two darker ones, flashed by us and disappeared into the fog again.
    “It’s a shame we can’t see more,” Kathleen said.
    I was too thrilled to tell her I disagreed, that seeing a momentary manifestation of horses was far more magical than a clear view could be. Now came another one, moving more slowly — white mist parting to reveal a dark brown beauty with a black mane. Her jockey bent low, toward her ear, singing to her in a soft voice.
    Kathleen and I looked at each other and grinned. “This,” I told her, “is the best birthday present of all.”

    We began our walk back to the McGarritts’, heading across the grass near the stables. Kathleen was telling me about a boy she had a crush on at school; then I stopped listening.
    Someone was watching me. My skin tingled, telling me so. I looked around, but saw only fog and grass.
    “What’s wrong?” Kathleen said. She sounded so worried that I made a face at her, and then she laughed.
    “Let’s run,” I said.
    We raced each other back to the street. By then the sensation was gone.
    Later that morning, Mrs. McGarritt drove me home, and Kathleen came along. Apparently Mrs. McG had reconsidered her ban, because she stayed in the car and let Kathleen help me carry my stuff inside. As always, our house was cool; the windows’ shades had been drawn against the heat.
    “You have so much space,” Kathleen said, looking around my room: pale blue walls, ivory wainscotings and crown moldings, dark blue velvet drapes looped back from the windows. “And you don’t have to share with anyone. Even your own bathroom!”
    She especially liked my bedside lamp, which had a five-sided porcelain shade. Unlit, the shade seemed like bumpy ivory. Lit, each panel came to life with the image of a bird: a blue jay, a cardinal, wrens, an oriole, and a dove. Kathleen turned it off and on again, several times. “How does it do that?”
    “The panels are called lithophanes.” I knew because I’d asked my father about the lamp, years ago. “The porcelain is carved and