from the rear. I must stay within the shadows of the trees, where the moon’s rays are barred by branches. Where I remain in the shadows.
The house of stone is huge; a mansion, built in the days when men thought of such edifices as mansions. The myriad heads of its cupolas are gray, silvered by the touch of time and moonlight. Myriad heads and one body—a hydra-house.
Why do I think of that? I don’t think in such terms. But the Voice does. The Voice is thinking for me. The night holds no secrets for the Voice. All I need do is listen and obey.
"Look for the open window."
Yes, look for the open window. Look for the silver lining. Look for the bluebird. That’s my voice now, my thought. Or am I just remembering something that was already told to me, a long time ago?
A long time ago I was in bed, asleep. Maybe I’m still asleep. Maybe I’m just dreaming.
"The open window—"
The Voice doesn't want me to wonder about such things. The Voice is telling me that somewhere along this side of the house there is a window, open and waiting.
Yes. I can see it. The sill is low. I can reach it, climb over it. That's what I'm supposed to do. And I must be quiet, exceedingly quiet. Yes, I hear, I know.
But it's dark. If I had my lighter—
"No light."
Of course. No light. I can stand here until my eyes grow accustomed to the dimness. Carrots for night vision. Night vision—a vision born of the night. Stand in the strange house now and try to see.
There's a musty odor in this room, a museum smell. I stand quietly, breathe softly, because no one must know I'm here.
I am a stranger and afraid, in a house I never made.
I blink at the sudden light. Is there somebody outside? No, it's only the moon shining through the trees as it rises. I can see now.
The long room is like a museum hall, lined with cases. I start down it.
The Voice guides me. Watch out for creaking floorboards. Don't bump against the glass. Breathe slowly, quietly.
Behind the glass I see figurines, pottery, vases, horses.
