Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 02 by Witchlight (v2.1)

was
almost a parody of what she'd expect an absentminded professor's office to be
like: The built-in bookshelves were stuffed with books and papers and edged
with memorabilia; the mantelpiece of the small, green-tiled fireplace was
filled to overflowing with books, framed certificates, and peculiar objects
less easy to identify. It was a homely place, in the oldest sense of the word—a
place where one could feel at home.
                 "I
do hope you're feeling better now," Professor Rhys went on,
"although I don't know why I'm talking about it as if it were
yesterday—it was fifteen years ago, wasn't it?"
                "I left without
graduating," Winter said, as if she were answering his tacit question.
Coming here had been a mistake, she realized. Professor Rhys didn't know that
she remembered neither him nor her college years—how could she expect him to
give her the answers she needed unless she could bear to tell him why?
                 "But
of course your diploma was sent later," Professor Rhys said firmly.
                 / wonder if it was. "Professor, I
was wondering; could you tell me—"
                 "Ah,
there you are, Johnnie!" The speaker did not bother to knock, but came
sailing in as if this were his office instead of John Auben Rhys's .
                 Lion Welland was in many ways the physical antithesis of
Professor Rhys. Tall and heron-gaunt—his blond hair worn in a flowing mane
reminiscent of an old-time impresario —time
had given him the brow of Shakespeare and sculpted the hairline into a dramatic
widow's peak. He wore an open-collared shirt with french cuffs and a silk scarf tied around his throat a la apache.
                 "Winter,
you remember Lionel Welland —he's head of Drama now.
Lion, this is one of my former students, Winter Musgrave."
                 "A
pleasure," Lion said briefly, his attention elsewhere. "Johnnie,
love, you are not going to believe what those macho babus over in admin have done this time—"
He leaned over Professor Rhys, his hand on the professor's shoulder, and
lowered his voice to a fierce murmur.
                 In
short, Lion was a textbook-perfect picture of a theatrical "queen,"
and it was obvious from the intimate way he leaned over the other man that he
and Rhys were a couple.
                 There ought to be a place for people like
that, where decent people wouldn't be exposed to them! The sudden flash of
hatred was primal, irresistible—and somehow alien, as if neither the thought
nor the feeling were truly Winter's. The emotion made her feel dirty, and as
if she'd failed to live up to her good opinion of herself.
                 Had
the child she'd been thought and felt these things? Winter was almost certain
she had not. Confusion replaced disgust.
                 "It's
a pleasure to meet
you—again—Professor Welland ," Winter said, with
such fierceness that Rhys chuckled.
                 "That
will serve you out for your rudeness, Lion," he said.
                 Lion
turned to Winter and advanced upon her, both hands extended. "My dear
lady—forgive my obliviousness. We of the theater tend to live in worlds of our
own, you know—until someone makes it impossible for us," he added darkly.
                 "The
administration is saying that Lion ought to charge for the Shakespeare
festival, rather than ask for an increase in his budget," Professor Rhys
supplied.
                 "The
point of theater is that it should be performed —not
paid for," Lion said peevishly. "Everyone enjoys it—and you made such
a lovely Portia in your time, my dear."
                 The quality of mercy is not strained, Winter
quoted mentally. "Thank you," she said, putting real warmth into her
voice. "I don't get a chance to do much acting now." Unless my whole life's become an act. All
the world's a stage,