"When the groundskeeper called him that, I thought he was ordering a drink."

"My mother used to call him that, too. But that reminds me. When you go back down to the kitchen, you tell Rye Whiskey that I want him to come up to see me. Right away. Tony was supposed to send him up, but he must have forgotten. Will you do that, please?"

"Oh, of course, I will. I'll go right down now. Would there be anything else you might want with your supper?"

"No, this all looks fine."

"Then you'd better eat it before it all gets cold," Mrs. Broadfield snapped as she came into the bedroom and crossed to the bathroom, carrying an armful of fresh, white towels. "Didn't I ask you to bring up these towels?" she said, turning at the bathroom door. Millie blushed.

"I was going to do just that, ma'am, as soon as I served Annie her supper."

Mrs. Broadfield grunted and continued on into the bathroom. Millie started away quickly.

"Don't forget Rye Whiskey," I called to her in a loud whisper.

"I won't."

Mrs. Broadfield came out and stopped at my bed to look over ray meal. She frowned at the small piece of chocolate cake.

"I distinctly told that cook not to put rich desserts on your tray. Just Jell-O for now."

"That's all right. I won't eat the cake."

"No, you won't," she said, and reached over to take it of the tray. "I'll see that you get the Jell-O." "It's not important."

"Following my orders is important," she i uttered, and then she pulled her shoulders back like a general and marched out of the room. Poor Rye Whiskey, I thought. I hadn't even met him yet, and now, because of me, he had gotten into trouble. I finished my meal, eating more out of necessity than out of pleasure, chewing and swallowing mindlessly. Each piece of broiled chicken tasted as if it were made of stone. It wasn't the fault of the carefully prepared food. I was just too tired and too depressed to care.

Just as I finished, I heard a knock on my outside door. I looked out and saw the elderly black man I knew had to be Rye Whiskey. He still wore his kitchen ap.r.o.n and carried a small dish of Jell-O.

"Come in," I called, and he came forward slowly. As he drew closer I saw that his eyes were wide, the whites around his black pupils so bright, it was as if a candle burned behind them like the candles in pumpkins on Halloween. What he saw in me obviously took his breath away.

"You must be Rye Whiskey."

"And you surely is Annie, Heaven's daughter. When I first set eyes on you from the doorway there, I thought I was lookin' at a ghost. Weren't the first time I thought I saw sornethird like that in this house, neither."

He tipped his head to whisper some prayerful words and then looked up, his face a portrait of sadness and worry. I knew he had been here through all of it: my grandmother's flight from home, my great-grandmother Jillian's madness and subsequent death, my mother's arrival and eventual unhappy parting with Tony Tatterton, and now my tragic arrival.

His thin hair was as white as snow, but he had a remarkably smooth, wrinkle-free face and looked very spry for a man I estimated to be close to if not over eighty.

"My mother often spoke fondly about you, Rye."

"I'm glad ta hear dat, Miss Annie, for I was sho' fond o' yer mama." His smile widened and he nodded, his head bobbing as if his neck were a spring. He glanced at my supper tray. "Food all right?"

"Oh, very tasty, Rye. I'm just not that excited about eating right now."

"Well, ole Rye Whiskey's goin' ta change that." His eyes crinkled in a smile and he nodded his head again. "So, how you-gettin' along, Miss Annie?"

"It's hard, Rye." Funny, I thought, but I felt comfortable being honest with him right from the start. Maybe it was because of the way Mother had spoken about him.

"Oh, I expect it would be." He leaned back on his heels. "I can remember the first time yer mama came ta the kitchen ta see me. Remember it just like it was yesterday. Just like you, she was so much like her own mama. She would come in an' watch me cookin' for hours, sittin' there on a stool, restin' her head on her hand and pepperin' me with all sorts of questions 'bout the Tattertons. She was 'bout as curious as a kitten who got inta a linen basket."

"What did she want to know?"

"Oh, jes"bout eveythin' I could remember 'bout this family--uncles, aunts, Mr. Tatterton's pappy and grandpappy. Whose picture was that on the wall, whose was this? 'Course, like in any family, there was things decent folk don't gossip 'bout."

What things, I longed to ask him, but I held my tongue, biding my time. Rye slapped his hands to his thighs and sighed.

"So, is there anythin' special I can make you?" he asked to quickly change the subject.

"I like fried chicken. My cook in Winnerrow makes a batter--"

"Oh, he does . . . well, you ain't tasted mine yet, chile, make you that this week. Unless your nurse says otherwise." He looked back to be sure Mrs. Broadfield wasn't there. "She come inta the kitchen with a list of do's and don'ts. Made my a.s.sistant, Roger, as nervous as the Devil on Sunday."

"I don't see how Southern fried chicken could hurt. Rye," I said, swinging my eyes toward the window, "Farthy was a much prettier place when my mother lived here, wasn't it?"

"Oh, and how! Why, when the flowers would bloom, it looked like Heaven's Gate."

"Why did Mr. Tatterton let it fall apart?"

He shifted his eyes away quickly. I saw that my question made him nervous, but that only made me more curious about his answer.

"Mr. Tatterton's had a hard time, Miss Annie, but he sho' has changed a whole lot since yourself arrived. Almost back to the way he was--talking 'bout fixie this and buildin' that. Things are comin' back to life 'round here, which is good for us aid bad for the ghosts," he whispered.

"Ghosts?"

"Well, like any big house that had so many people movin' through it, spirits linger, Miss Annie." He nodded for emphasis. "But I ain't one to challenge that, and neither is Mr. Tatterton. We live side by side with 'em and they don' bother us none and we don' bother them."

I saw he was serious.

"Are there many servants here now who were here when my mother lived here, Rye?"

"Oh no, Miss Annie. There's jes' myself, Curtis, and Miles. All the maids and grounds helpers are gone, mostly dead and gone."

"Is there a tall, thin man working here, too, a man much younger than Curtis?"

He thought a moment and shook his head. "There's groundsmen, but they're all short and stocky."

Who was that man at my parents' tomb? I wondered. Rye continued to gaze at me, a fond smile on his face.

"Has it been hard for you these past years, Rye, because of the way Mr. Tatterton was?"

"No, ma'am, not hard. Sad, but not hard. 'Course, I stayed in my room after supper and left the house to the spirits. Now," he smiled, "they gonna retreat and hover 'bout their graves mostly, 'cause we got light and life again. Spirits hate young people roamin' 'bout. Makes 'em jittery 'cause the young folks got so much energy and brightness 'bout 'em."

"You really heard these spirits in the house, Rye?" I tipped my head and smiled, but he didn't smile back.

"Oh yes, ma'am. Many a night. There's one spirit, very unhappy one, who roams the halls, goes from room to room, searchin'."

"For what?"

"Don' know, Miss Annie. Dan' talk to and he don' talk ta me. But I've heard him walkin"bout and I've heard the music."

"Music?"

"Piana music. Sweet music."

"Did you ever ask Mr. Tatterton about it?"

"No, Miss Annie. Didn't have to. Saw it in his eyes." "Saw what?"

"That he heard and saw the same things I did. But you forgets all about that, Miss Annie. You get strong and better fast. Ole Rye will cook up a storm now that there's someone to cook for."

I thought a moment.

"Rye, is there a horse here called Scuttles?"

"Scuttles, Miss Annie? There ain't no horses now. H'ain't been any for some time. Scuttles?" His eyes went from side to side as he thought, scanning his memory. I saw him stop thinking, a realization coming to him.

"Scuttles, why that was the name Miss Jillian gave to her ridin' pony. She lived on a horse ranch when she was a young girl. I remembers her talkin ,,bout that pony all the time. But we never had one here named Scuttles. Her horse was called Abdulla Bar. A devilish animal," he added, his eyes brightening with fear.

"Why do you say that, Rye?"

"He let no one but Miss Jillian ride 'im, so Mr. Tatterton kept everyone else off, 'cept that one terrible time. But it wasn't his fault," he added quickly.

"What terrible time, Rye?"

"Oh, this ain't the time to talk 'bout sad things, Miss Annie. You got your own hardship ta bear."

"Please, Rye, I don't want to ask Mr. Tatterton, but I want to know."

He looked back and stepped closer to the bed. He shook his head and lowered his eyes.

"It was his brother, Mr. Troy, Miss Annie. One day he jes' hopped on that stallion and rode him into the sea. Only a Devil horse woulda done it. Any other horse woulda refused to go in."

"So that's what Drake meant when he said Troy committed suicide. He rode my great-grandmother's horse into the ocean and--"

"And he drowned, Miss Annie. Seems this house has had more'n its share of hardships ta bear, hasn't it, Miss Annie?" He shook his head.

"Sometimes it's harder ta live ta a ripe ole age. Yer haunted by the many bad memories and ya hear the many lonely spirits."

"But why did he do such a thing, Rye?"

"Oh, I wouldn't know," he said quickly; too quickly, I thought. "Troy was as handsome a young man as yall ever see, and talented, too. He made many of the toys, ya know. Only, I never called 'em toys. They was more like art." He shook his head and smiled, recalling. "Lil houses and lil people, some made inta music boxes."

"Music boxes?"

"Beautiful melodies . . . like soft piana music."

"Chopin," I muttered. The memory of my mother's musical cottage sent my heart pitterpattering, overwhelming me with a flush of sadness.

"What's that, Miss Annie?"

I shifted my eyes away quickly, not wanting him to see my tears.

"I was just thinking of a composer."

"Oh. Well, I best get my ole self back down ta the kitchen and see what Roger's up to. He's my-- what do you call 'im--apprentice. Ole Rye can't expects he'll be workin' in that kitche forever, and Mr. Tatterton needs a good cook when I gets the call to join my maker. 'Course, rights now, I play deaf to that, Miss Annie," he said, smiling widely. We laughed.

"Oh, I almost forgot yer Je11-0." He put the dish on my tray.

"Sorry 1 can't have your chocolate cake, Rye. It looked delicious."

"Oh yes, she brought that right down again." He looked back and then leaned toward me. "Course, find away to sneak a piece back up. Jest ya wait."

"Thank you, Rye. And come back to see me, please."

"Sho' will."

"Well, what's this?" Tony said, suddenly appearing in my doorway. "The chef checking up to see how well his food's gone over?"

"Someone had ta bring up some Jell-O, and I thought it was as good a time as any to pay my respects, Mr. Tatterton." He turned back to me and winked. "Gots ta be gettin' back ta my kitchen now."

"Thank you, Rye," I called as he hurried out. Tony watched him leave and then turned to me.

"Why didn't Millie bring up the Jell-O?" he wondered aloud.

"I asked Millie to send him up."

"Oh?" His blue eyes narrowed.

"I hope that was all right," I said quickly. He looked upset.

"I was going to tell him to come see you after dinner. It's all right," he added, his eyes softening. "He's still one of the best chefs on the East Coast. I'd wager his Yorkshire pudding against any."

"He's everything my mother said he was. He must be over eighty, right?"

"Who knows? He can't really remember his birthday, or he lies about his age. So, how are you doing? Feeling a bit stronger?"

"Tired from the therapy, and frustrated. I want to get out and about the mansion and the estate."

"Well, maybe Mrs. Broadfield will approve a short trip down this corridor late tomorrow morning. The doctor will be here the day after."

"Has Luke called?" I asked hopefully. "Not yet."

"I don't understand why not." My heart plunged. Had Drake's predictions already come true?

"Just giving you a chance to get settled in, I'm sure."

He brought a chair up beside the bed. When he sat down, he crossed his legs and meticulously ran his fingers down the sharp crease of his gray trouser leg.