The Catswold Portal

The restaurant rambled along the cliff high above the sea.

Chapter 59

She returned slowly to the inn. The dawn sky was…

Chapter 60

Twenty paintings hung on the white gallery walls, each with…

Chapter 61

Outdoor lights brightened the fluted borders of the museum’s tile…

Chapter 62

Braden turned the station wagon into the lane, his headlights…

Chapter 63

Braden tore at the wall with his hands, smashed his…

Chapter 64

The swinging light of the lanterns jabbed and shifted along…

Chapter 65

Melissa descended the cellar stairs among the roars of the…

Chapter 66

On a narrow ridge east of Shenndeth, Siddonie sat on…

Chapter 67

Zzadarray’s towers were airy, open to the Netherworld breezes. The…

Chapter 68

The army moved out of Zzadarray with Netherworld Catswold and…

Chapter 69

It was midnight, the battle was stilled by darkness. Siddonie…

Chapter 70

The ponies jogged along steadily behind Braden’s gray gelding. The…

Chapter 71

Melissa, riding the upperworld stallion meant for Helsa, wearing the…

Chapter 72

Pain shot through Melissa’s shoulder. She unsheathed her knife as…

Chapter 73

Siddonie stood captive, held by her own warriors. Melissa remembered…

Chapter 74

It was midnight. Few lights burned in Affandar Palace, though…

Chapter 75

Sun flooded through the windows of Mathew Rhain’s reception room.

Epilogue

The female figure is a time-honored theme in painting. The…

About the Author

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Other Books by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

Copyright

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

He ran pounding through the forest, his tennis shoes snapping dry branches as he stretched out in a long lope. Running eased the tightness, the tension. He was tall and lean, dark haired. Dodging between the broad trunks of redwood trees he headed uphill toward the mountain, swerving past deadfalls, trampling ferns that stroked his bare legs like animal paws. Strange thought, Alice’s kind of thought, animal paws. He shivered, but not from the cold. It was dusk; Alice would be cleaning up, putting away her paints, washing her brushes, thinking about dinner, wondering whether to go out or open something. She wouldn’t speak to him while he was still working, would go out to the kitchen and stand looking in the freezer.

She would have done those things. Had done them, once. The pain ran with him, he couldn’t shake it, couldn’t leave it alone.

Months after the funeral he had started to heal, to mend, the hurting began to dull, some feeling returning besides rage and grief. But now suddenly his pain was raw again, the last few days were as if her death had just happened, her body in the wrecked car…He swerved away from the ravine and ran steeply up between boulders, but at the foot of Mount Tamalpais he turned back. It was dark now within the forest, though the sky above the giant redwoods still held light. He ran downhill again for a long way before lights began to flicker between the trees from isolated houses braving the forest gloom. The chill air held the smoke of fireplaces and he could smell early suppers cooking. Alice would be saying, Let’s just get a hamburger, I don’t feel like cooking, don’t feel like getting dressed. She’d fix herself a drink, go to shower off the smell of inks and fixative, slip on a clean pair of jeans. His breath caught, seeing her body wet from the shower, little droplets on her breasts, her long pale hair beaded with water.

He was in sight of the village now; it stretched away below him, the last light of evening clinging along the street and to the roofs of the shops. He could hear a radio somewhere ahead, and the swish of cars on the damp macadam, then suddenly the streetlights burst on all at once. His feet crushed fallen branches then he hit the sidewalk and an explosion of speed took him past the library, the building’s tall windows reflecting car lights against the books. He could smell frying hamburgers from the Creek, and farther on something Italian from Anthea’s. He swerved past villagers closing up shop, and each looked up at him. “Hey, Brade!” “Evening, Braden.” He dodged the first Greyhound commuters returning from the city. “Hey there, West.” “Nice night for running.” He nodded, raised a hand, and pounded on past. His long body reflected running distortions in the shop windows. Crossing the dead-end lane to the garden where his studio stood among other houses, he glanced up the hill toward Sam’s Bar that stood at the edge of the forest, thought of stopping for a beer, but then went on.