The thought of laboriously wrapping the zirconia stones in foil with no accompaniment besides my own thoughts - the Hydes either didn't have a stereo or I just couldn't find it - was abhorrent. In one of our hastily packed boxes, I remembered seeing Arch's Walkman, so I poked around until I found it.

I inserted the labyrinth-background tape from Eliot's desk, washed my hands, and a.s.sembled the ingredients for the tart crusts. Eliot had wanted me to bone up on labyrinths so that I could field questions during the next day's lunch. What he didn't realize was that except for the dieters, no one ever asks the caterer much. The dieters have two questions: "What's in this?" and "Is it low-fat?" They can be tiresome clients.

The labyrinth was a very ancient form, the tape began. It differed from a maze, a laid-out puzzle where you had choices as to which way to go. A labyrinth led only one way, but unless you paid attention to every twist and turn, you wouldn't make it to the center. The oldest surviving labyrinth formed a stepping-stone path laid into the floor of the nave of Chartres Cathedral. The distance to its center from the front door was used as a mystical measurement, and mirrored the distance from the door to the center of the rose window. At the center you will find G.o.d, the tape informed me. Pilgrims now walked the labyrinth only once a year, but in medieval times it might have been walked often. These days, chairs covered the Chartres labyrinth.

As I sliced the dark plums into juicy slices, the taped voice launched into a discussion of labyrinth symbolism, which, in fact, was similar to that of the maze. Theseus had wound into the maze of the Minotaur, slain him in its center, then found his way back out to safety with the help of thread, thoughtfully provided by Ariadne. Christians walking to the center of the labyrinth could only get lost if they weren't paying attention. By treading the path of the labyrinth, Christians took a spiritual journey to the death of Christ, and his temporary descent to h.e.l.l. By symbolically descending and then ascending again, a pilgrim retraced the messianic journey, found G.o.d, and, hopefully, figured out all his or her life problems along the way. The idea of a walking meditation was appealing, but I wondered what happened if you got stuck in the Damson-in-Distress Plum Tart 14 tablespoons (1 3/4 sticks) unsalted b.u.t.ter 2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour, plus an additional 3 tablespoons for the filling 3 1/2 tablespoons sour cream, plus an additional cup for the filling teaspoon salt 9 Damson or other plums (If using small Italian plums, you may need as many as 24 2 eggs 1 1/2 cups sugar Preheat the oven to 325F. b.u.t.ter the bottom and sides of a 9 x 13-inch gla.s.s pan. For the crust, first fit a food processor with the steel blade. Cut the b.u.t.ter into chunks, Place it into the bowl of the food processor along with the 2 1/4 cups flour, 3 1/2 tablespoons sour cream, and salt. Process until the dough pulls into a ball. Gently pat the dough into an even, layer on the bottom of the prepared pan. For the filling, pit and slice the plums into quarters. Cover the prepared crust with rows of sliced plums to completely cover the crust. Beat the eggs with the sugar, 3 tablespoons flour, and 1/2 cup sour cream until well blended. Pour this beaten mixture carefully over the rows of plums. Bake the tart for 45 to 60 minutes, or until the top is golden brown and the custard is set in the middle. (I use a spoon to check the middle of the tart. The custard should be congealed, not soupy.) Allow the tart to cool completely on a rack. Cut into rectangles and serve with best-quality vanilla ice cream. Refrigerate any unserved portion.

Makes 16 servings "It's good to have you back," I said, and hugged him. Fourteen-year-old boys do not like motherly embraces. But if you don't mind putting your arms around a kid-dying-to-get-away-from-you, you can let him know you care.

"I'm starving," he announced, peeking into the oven. "And I've got a ton of astronomy homework. How long to dinner?"

I told him it would be a few hours and he should wash up for a snack. While he soaped his hands, I fixed him scones, cheddar slices, and a soft drink. When he finished, I told him, he could help Julian set up in the Great Hall, then ask for homework help.

"Michaela's idea is so cool," Arch enthused, his mouth crammed with scone. "We're going to show everybody how to fence, then we're going to reconstruct a duel where some guy insulted another guy. The insulting guy got stabbed and bled to death."

I shuddered, remembering the Lauderdales and their threats. "I think anyone who resorts to weapons to resolve conflicts has already lost."

"Yeah, well, I think that's why we always yelled that saying on the playground. Y'know, 'Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names can never hurt me.' Michaela says that when duels started, they used swords. Then they switched to pistols. You got in a duel with both guys' packing guns, somebody was going to get whacked." He sounded ecstatic. I remembered Buddy Lauderdale's face as he was led away in handcuffs on New Year's Eve. By the time I commented, "Now there's a happy thought," Arch had already whisked away.

-20-.

At quarter past six, Arch returned to the kitchen to pick up the hot-water baths for the chafers. He reported that he'd done all of his schoolwork, except for astronomy. For that, he had to wait until the stars rose. Might be up late, he added with mock ruefulness, but I let it go.

Julian, meanwhile, fretted that the night's menu had no gourmet vegetarian dishes. So he scurried about to prepare two of his bistro specialties: a colorful lentil-tomato-scallion salad, and a bowl of baby spinach leaves tossed with a balsamic vinaigrette and topped with slices of goat cheese and tiny dollops of a red onion marmalade he grabbed from the dining-room jam cabinet.

"I might want to get this recipe from Eliot," I commented, when I tasted the spicy relish. Julian nodded.

Arch, careful to protect his white fencing outfit, put together a heaping basket of warm rolls and b.u.t.ter. As we were loading the lamb roast and fixings onto trays, Eliot appeared.

He was wearing a double-breasted black suit that gave him a vaguely military air - probably a captain-of-the-castle look he was going after. With great ceremony, he announced that the seminar had been a success. While we picked up the gravy boat, extra candles, and matches, Eliot shuffled and banged in the dining room. Eventually he emerged with an elaborate corkscrew and two bottles of red wine. The only thing he and Sukie had disagreed on, he went on, was the number of people the castle could feed on a daily basis.

"This castle held a hundred people in the Middle Ages," he told us, as he eyed his marmalade on top of Julian's salad, "with complete self-sufficiency. And besides, we've done fine with you four," he added over his shoulder. He sashayed ahead of us through the heavy wooden hallway doors that led to the stairs.

"And we're thankful," I gushed. I didn't point out that Eliot had done no cooking, cleaning, or conference-running, not to mention battle-preparation, during our stay. Not only that, but medieval kitchen staffs usually numbered over fifty. I didn't point this out, either. If a caterer wants to keep her job, she does not correct the client.

I had never been in the Great Hall at night. Chandeliers and candles illuminated the cavernous s.p.a.ce. The walls, paneled with dark, elaborately carved wooden squares, were hung with rich tapestries depicting battle scenes. Rows of arched leaded-gla.s.s windows bisected the walls. On the second story at the far end of the hall, a large balcony I had not noticed before projected out over the room. That area, Eliot said as I directed the food into the chafers, had been the minstrels' gallery. Below the gallery, the wood-paneled wall also jutted into the hall - another medieval toilet, Sukie told me, pragmatic as ever. The corner also held an arched doorway that led to the postern gate. Eliot went on to inform us that in the Middle Ages, only the courtiers dined in this hall. The servants had been relegated to their own dining hall on the castle's south range.

Eliot, his chin held high, led us to the far end of the hall, where he'd set up a badminton net and marked out a court with tape. The penny-p.r.i.c.k game looked straight-forward enough: players stood behind a boundary and threw knives at an empty bottle, trying to knock a penny off the bottle's lip, without overturning the bottle itself. Although the game historically was played with real knives, Eliot, ever wary of folks hurting themselves at the castle and the story getting into the paper, had bought a dozen of the rubber variety.

Tom appeared as I finished organizing the buffet. He walked over slowly and gave me a one-armed hug. Tears stung my eyes. I squeezed him back and prayed for all of Sara Beth O'Malley's teeth to fall out of her mouth before Friday.

Sukie, Eliot, Michaela, Tom, Arch, and I dug into the tender lamb roast, the garlicky potatoes, the crunchy beans, the rich, hot gravy, and the cool mint jelly. Julian fixed himself a heaping plate of vegetables and salads, while Eliot waxed eloquent on the fact that the ceremonial procession of the courses from the kitchen to the Great Hall - which we'd unconsciously imitated when we'd lugged the food up the stairs - had been extraordinarily important in medieval and Renaissance times. The lord of the castle wanted to put on a big show, to prove to everybody how rich he was.

Julian surrept.i.tiously rolled his eyes, then offered to clear the table and return with dessert and coffee. I nodded and thanked him. Eliot tapped Michaela to play the first game of shuttlec.o.c.k as teammate to Arch, with Eliot and Sukie for opponents. Tom kept score, and I straightened up the table while cheering for both teams.

When the score was nine to nine, a cold sweat rolled over me. Had I really detected movement in the shadows of the postern-gate corner? Without warning, a shift in the flickering light revealed-what was it? A miniature knight, dressed in plate armor? Watching the game?

"Agh!" I yelled, pointing at the corner. "What the h.e.l.l is that?"

The badminton game ceased. Eliot, Sukie, Michaela, and Arch gaped at me. I looked at them, then squinted at the corner, now suddenly empty. I sprinted over to where the two walls met, only to find no statue, no movement, no miniature knight. I tore open the door that led to the postern gate. The tower was icy cold and deserted. Disappointed, I slammed back inside.

"Miss G.?" Tom's voice was full of concern.

"Sorry, everybody. I thought I saw something ... ." I felt acutely embarra.s.sed. I really did seem to be losing my mind. Except Tom had had a similar vision/hallucination/whatever. What was going on?

Sukie shot Eliot a stern look and murmured that sometimes it was better not to share the legends of the castle with guests. Eliot tossed his hair off his forehead and replied that he hadn't told me any ghost stories. But I noticed that his eyes had become anxious. Tom tilted his head at me: Did my Tale of Law Enforcement scare you? I shook my head, as in, It's okay.

"Let's do the fencing demonstration," Michaela interjected, and I was thankful for the change in subject. The last thing a caterer wants to make is a gaffe, especially when the guests then proceed to discuss it for the rest of the evening.

Michaela and Arch took swords and masks from a bag stored under the buffet table. While Arch rolled out a mat, I kept an eye on the dark corner. So, I noticed, did Sukie. Tom, meanwhile, engaged Eliot in a spirited discussion of the escalating prices of antique furniture. But I couldn't help noticing that Eliot's gaze also kept straying to the shadows through which I'd seen the armored figure glide.

"This is an epee," Michaela announced in her gravelly voice, commanding our immediate attention. "With the foil, which Arch and I usually use in practice, one may score a point by a touch on the upper torso. With the epee, touches anywhere on the body count. Arch, come here, please." My son dutifully hopped up from the mat and strode over.

"The first thing we teach," Michaela said, pointing to Arch's feet, "is how to advance and retreat. Okay, Arch." My son obliged by stepping deftly forward and back. Michaela continued: "The front arm and hand holding the weapon are parallel to the ground."

At this she handed Arch an epee, which he brandished: in showmanlike fashion, Tom grinned.

"The back arm," Michaela went on, "is crooked up at the elbow, hand facing the sky, for balance, until someone attacks, and lunges. Go ahead."

Arch lunged. As he straightened his back leg and arm, he thrust the sword forward, It gleamed dangerously in the light from the chandelier. My son, the swashbuckler.

Michaela picked up a weapon. "The final skill we teach newcomers is parry, riposte. Your opponent attacks. You slap his sword aside, then counterattack." She lowered the mask over her face. "En garde, Arch."

Michaela and Arch touched their swords to their masks in formal greeting. And then they went at it, back and forth across the mat, moving with remarkable swiftness and an impressive snapping of swords. Clink, clink, swoosh, clink. I found myself growing more nervous with every flourish. I didn't know if Michaela was letting Arch win, or making a good show. Arch scored a hit. Both took off their masks, bowed deeply to each other, then to us.

We all clapped enthusiastically. All of us, that is, except Eliot, who appeared increasingly anxious. As if on cue, Julian entered with a tray. He had shortbread cookies, ice cream, and frosting-slathered Chocolate Emergency Cookies, plus an insulated coffeepot and cream and sugar containers.

"And now," Michaela said, "we will - "

Somewhat rudely, I thought, Eliot interrupted her with, "Great! Come on everybody, time for our sweets!" Tom and Sukie attempted halfhearted applause for the fencers.

Downcast, clutching his weapon, Arch raised his eyes to me for a cue. I gave a tiny shrug. Michaela murmured to him that the demo was over, and would he please roll up the mat.

With exclamations of pleasure, Eliot and Sukie received demita.s.se cups of coffee and crystal bowls of ice cream, with cookies perched on the scoops. Ignoring Michaela and Arch, Eliot resumed his somewhat shrill monologue on the exorbitant prices of antiques. Julian, his intuition alerting him that something had run amuck, appeared at my side.

"What's going on?" he murmured.

"I thought I saw a ghost, and now Eliot's acting a little uptight," I said under my breath.

"Oh, is that all?"

"Julian, I saw something. So did Tom, when he woke up today. So either there is a ghost here, my husband and I are both having hallucinations, or a kid or midget or something is romping through the castle, wearing knight's armor."

"If it's a girl in her late teens, tell her I'm available."

"Julian!"

"Early twenties would be okay." He scanned the Great Hall. Eliot and Sukie called their thanks to us and waved good night. Standing not far from us, Arch looked crestfallen.

"Jeez, Goldy, Arch looks like a friend just died," Julian commented, concerned.

"He was enjoying being the center of attention for once - "

"Mom!" Arch appeared by my elbow and I yelped. It was his silent disappearing-reappearing act, learned in his eleventh and twelfth years, otherwise known as his magic-trick phase. I didn't like it any more now than I had then.

"Michaela wants you and Tom and me to come over and see the fencing loft," my son said eagerly. "And Julian, too, if he'd like to. We can finish our demonstration over there, if everybody still wants ..."

"Oh, no, thanks," Tom said. His face was haggard, and I knew the evening had worn him out more than he was willing to admit. "I'm going to turn in, if that's all right."

"Mom?" asked Arch, his face pleading.

"I have to do the dishes," I said, with a pang. "Sorry."

"Forget the dishes," Julian told me firmly. "Go watch the demonstration. And, hey! I'm getting good at cleaning up. Makes me feel helpful."

Arch's expectant look, Julian's offer, Michaela's generosity, and, of course, my admonition to Arch not to go anywhere in the castle alone, made me say yes, I'd love to watch the demonstration. But not for long, I told Arch hastily: I still had prep to do on the labyrinth lunch, and he had astronomy homework. Not to mention, I added silently, if there was going to be a ghost-knight flitting around the castle, I wanted to be at my son's side when the specter made his next appearance.

Toting armloads of fencing equipment, we wended our way through the cold, dimly lit postern gate tower, then down a drab hall to a set of steps leading to the first floor.

"How come part of the inhabited section of the castle is downstairs," I asked Michaela, "and part is up?"

"In Eliot's grandfather's time," she replied, "two of the castle's original four stories were what their family and our family lived in and used. Then when the flood of '82 came, Eliot had to make some decisions. The wall of water blasted down Fox Creek, broke the dam, and flooded the bas.e.m.e.nt and first-floor rooms on the west range. Eliot wanted the study redone, because of the beautiful old fireplace in there, and his and Sukie's bedroom. Charde has worked hard on the place." She shook her head. "But, whoa, did we all get tired of her, begging to refurbish the rest of the flood-damaged rooms, telling Eliot that he'd look cheap if he didn't spend more money getting everything redecorated. That woman's a money-grubber if I ever saw one."

Don'thold back on your feelings, I thought as we tramped past the entry to the indoor pool, the door to Eliot's study, and then through the gla.s.s doors marked UNDER CONSTRUCTION - NO ADMITTANCE. The Wet Paint sign was gone. The splattered paint, however, was still allover the place, and the new padlock was securely fastened.

"Was Charde working over here?" I asked casually, trying to disguise my interest. I couldn't exactly admit to breaking into a playroom.

"I hope not," said Michaela. "We try to keep that woman as contained as possible. Or at least, I do," she added with a sourness that was impossible to miss.

I stopped in front of the playroom and tilted my head at the door. "What's in here?"

"It used to be old living quarters," said Michaela with a smile. "But we're having them fixed up. Without Charde, hopefully. Let's go."

To my surprise, Michaela did not live on the ground floor of the north range-the castle front - but through a door and up another set of stairs to the second story. At the top of the steps, she slipped a bra.s.s key from under a plastic welcome mat. Interesting to note that while the Hydes were extremely security-conscious, Michaela was not... .

"In the flood of '82?" she explained as she fiddled with the lock. "The west side of the north range's first story was also completely flooded. This side of the gatehouse has been our living quarters since my grandfather's time." She sighed and pushed open the door. "We lost boxes of books and letters that I had stored in closets. Our family used to have the two stories, but now my whole operation is upstairs. Downstairs is more storage area."

Inside her door, Michaela flipped on lights that illuminated a golden-oak floor, a narrow, white-painted room lined with racks of swords, and a higgledy-piggledy arrangement of mats and open folding chairs. At first I thought we were in a gym of some kind, but I realized belatedly that this was the Kirovsky fencing loft, where Eliot's father and grandfather had learned the Royal Sport from Michaela's forebears.

"This is so cool," said Arch, entranced.

"This is where I've been coaching Howie Lauderdale and a few other juniors and seniors before the state meet. Elk Park Prep doesn't want us in the gym late at night or early in the morning, so we sometimes have to meet here. When you're a member of the varsity, Arch, this is where I'll coach you, too."

"Great," said my son, trying in vain to suppress a smile. When you're a member of the varsity. To my son, those were magical words.

"Come into the rest of the apartment," Michaela told, us. "It's set up like railroad cars, one room after the other. Loft, living room, kitchenette. The loft takes up so much s.p.a.ce that we didn't have much left for family quarters, upstairs. But it's enough for me. Come on, I want you to see my collection."

The living room, a spare, austere arrangement of old - not antique - furniture, consisted of a couch and one chair. A threadbare green rug lay on the floor. There was no coffee table, only two mismatched end tables. But brightly colored crocheted afghans and an a.s.sortment of garage-sale pillows gave the room a comfortable feel.

The walls immediately captured my attention. I slid beside the fraying couch and stared at row after row of cheaply framed photos, hundreds of them, all cut from magazines. Every one seemed to be of armor, castles, and the crowned heads of Europe. A magazine copy of a portrait of Queen Elizabeth I, her red hair swept up above her wide, white ruff, was hung next to a photograph of a: youthful Prince Charles. There were dozens of photographs of stodgy-looking Queen Victoria, sometimes alone, sometimes with Prince Albert. Nicholas and Alexandra had a row all to themselves. This wasn't really a collection: It was more like the room of a pa.s.sionate Royal-watcher.

"What started all this?" I asked.

"Family tradition," Michaela answered. "We were living in a castle, so when I was a kid I wondered about the people who lived in castles."

"Did you take all this over to Furman County Elementary?" Arch demanded. "I mean, for Show and Tell, when you were little?"

Michaela laughed and shook her head. "I was home-schooled before it was fashionable, Arch. Then went to community college as a commuter student. But the kings and queens have always remained my friends, and the collection has grown over the years. I have a pa.s.sion for any royal portrait."

Ah, G.o.d, I thought. On stamps, too? No, I decided in the same moment. No way. Michaela had no connection to Ray Wolff and Andy Balachek, except that she'd known Andy when he was little. She'd loved him, and truly deplored his descent into the gambling lifestyle. Plus, a woman who'd never ventured farther than the nearby community college, and had always and only known caretaking at the castle, wouldn't take a flyer on a risky hijacking venture, would she?

"Got any more?" Arch asked eagerly.

A wall devoted to French royalty, Michaela announced, was actually the bottom of her Murphy bed. When she folded it down, there wasn't much room in the place, she added, so she'd spare us the sight. Each night, she announced with a hint of naughtiness, it helped her to know she was sleeping on Louis XIV.

"Okay, enough of my nutty hobby. I make great hot chocolate," she said to Arch. "Or tea or instant coffee or even instant hot spiced cider, if you're interested," she told me. I said that hot spiced cider sounded terrific, and followed her into the tiny kitchenette. The cramped s.p.a.ce had a stone floor, a small set of cupboards, and a narrow counter crowded with a hot plate, an ancient electric vat coffeepot - the same kind I used for catered events - and a cookie jar in the shape of the Kremlin. Inside the jar were Russian tea cakes. Michaela pulled the vat lever for hot water that made Arch's cocoa and my cider, along with some tea for herself. I burned my tongue sipping the steaming cider, but it cleared my head.

Soon we were seated in the royal-photos living room, munching rich, b.u.t.tery tea cakes while savoring our hot drinks. That's the thing about a big dinner; you eat it and then half an hour later you're wishing for a snack. I tried not to notice the grandmotherly eyes of Queen Victoria, or how that plump countenance seemed to watch my every bite. Arch and Michaela chatted happily. She really was wonderful with kids. Why, though, given her apparent animosity for Eliot and this crummy apartment, would she stay in the castle? Did Elk Park Prep pay their coaches so badly that she couldn't afford a place of her own? Or did she stay because of the gorgeous fencing loft?

"How about that dueling demonstration?" I suggested.

Arch and Michaela grinned, set aside their plates, and stood. While Arch donned his mask, Michaela explained, "In 1547, two French n.o.blemen fought the first private duel of honor. Francois de Vivonne, seigneur de La Chataigneraie, insulted Guy Chabot, Baron de Jarnac, by publicly accusing de Jarnac of having s.e.x with his own motherin-law. De Jarnac immediately challenged Chataigneraie to a duel, which was viewed by the French king, Henry the Second, and hundreds of courtiers." She stopped to put on her mask. "En garde, Arch."

Again the two of them went back and forth, grunting, thrusting, parrying, and offering aggressive ripostes. They seemed entirely focused on their match. When Arch scored a hit just below Michaela's shoulder, she laughed out loud and asked him to stop for a moment Removing her mask, she told me, "De Jarnac and Chataigneraie did not solve their conflict so easily. Slowly, now, Arch, lunge and I will parry and riposte. Then stop."

My son lunged. Michaela's parry deftly flicked Arch's sword aside. Then she did a slow-motion riposte onto Arch's calf. He froze, as instructed.

"De Jarnac," Michaela said; "instead of going for the heart, cut the major artery in Chataigneraie's leg. Then de Jarnac slashed his opponent's other leg, and demanded that Chataigneraie withdraw his insult. Chataigneraie refused and bled to death in front of the king. That was the end of court-sanctioned dueling in France. The leg-attack became known as the 'Coup de Jarnac.'"

"But you're not allowed to hit in the leg," Arch protested as he tugged off his mask. "Except in epee, I guess."

Michaela laughed, pleased. "You're right. End of demonstration." I clapped and thanked them both. She said, "For tomorrow night, Arch, we'll have Josh and Howie demonstrate epee. Then, if Kirsten's over her mono, you and she can do foil. She has long arms, which is an advantage. Then we'll have Chad and Scott do saber - "

The telephone rang. I hadn't even noticed it in the sea of photos, probably because it was on a lower shelf of one of the end tables. Michaela drew it out and stared at it before answering. It took me a moment to realize she had been puzzling over a tiny screen with caller ID.

"Sheriff's department?" she asked. "Sergeant Boyd?"

"It's for me." Without thinking, I launched myself across the couch, sloshing cider onto the rug. As I gabbled apologies, Michaela relieved me of my cup. Then she dropped some paper napkins on the rug and handed me the receiver, all in one smooth motion. If I ever did learn to fence, did that mean I'd become coordinated?

"This is Goldy," I said.