A woman's voice spoke from the box. "We're closed on Mondays."

"Harper Blaine. I have an appointment with the curator."

"Oh. I'll be right up."

A few minutes later, a middle-aged woman in a suit, heels, and corporate hairstyle appeared from behind the house. She took one look at Will and knew a kindred spirit. They chattered antiques the whole way up the drive.

"Nobody cares about the national heritage here," she declared as we reached the kitchen door. "You have to drag every penny of funding out of these bureaucrats' hands as if it were their own money. They'd rather spend it on a new baseball stadium. Watch your feet. There's a towel to wipe your shoes on."

We did as she suggested, leaving the mud on the towel instead of the parquet floor. She led us into the main hall and waved her hands around. "Gorgeous, isn't it? It's a damn sight better than it was when I came here. They had the interior all done in high Victoriana. Crammed with horrible gewgaws and junk, bad wallpaper, ugly, ugly colors. Totally out of period for this building."

"Then why did the museum acquire a parlor organ?" Will asked.

"Oh, yes. That's what you came for, isn't it? There was an organ on the original inventory, but it was broken and the first curator threw it out. Come on. It's upstairs. You can imagine what it was like getting it in here!" she added, leading us up the front staircase. Upstairs, she opened the door in front of us. "There you go. Awful, isn't it?"

A small sofa, chairs, and a needlework stand clustered around the hearth, as before, exuding their reassuring odor of age, must, and wood oil. Against the back wall stood the organ, outlined in gleaming red threads and writhing with vile, silent Grey snakes. Will pulled out the description sheet I'd given him and started studying it.

I felt woozy and my heart sped up. I clamped down on the feeling, but the sense of seasickness remained, tickling away, and the room had become hazy and soft like the stink of rot no matter how I tried to resist it.

Will read the sheet as we walked across the polished wood floor. Two feet inside the door, I felt sick. At four feet, my head was pounding with an instant headache of migraine proportions. I put my hand on Will's arm.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

I lied. "I don't know. I just don't feel well." I turned my attention back to the parlor organ.

It was still the ugliest thing I'd ever seen and would have been even if it wasn't cloaked in swirling energy matrices and sucking darkness like a drain. It had grown worse in just a few days. Clear vision in the Grey seemed to have come with Wygan's "gift." Storm-mist pulse around the organ and phantom faces leered and screamed in transient gusts of paranormal wind. Creeping horror played up and down my spine. I dragged myself a step closer to it, hating the proximity. A glowing tentacle struck out and slammed into my chest where Wygan's thread was tied. I gagged and stumbled.

I tried to bend the Grey and push it away. The tentacle rippled and sucked away the strength of my push. My knees folded and I felt the floor rush up as vision went black.

Will grabbed me under the arms. "Harper!"

The tentacle pulled on me, wrapping around my insides like a steel fist. I choked, "Get me out of here."

Will picked me up and ran out. He didn't stop until we were out-side, where he put me on my feet with the care of a collector placing a prized piece.

"Are you all right now? Are you sick? Do you need a glass of water, a doctor…?"

I slumped down on the carriage steps like a dropped sandbag. "No, no. I'm OK now. I just… I just need some air. Go back inside. I'll be fine." I could not face that thing again. It had drained my resources too easily.

"Are you sure? We can go if you want."

"No, it's important that I know about that organ."

Will sighed. "All right. But you'll be OK till I get back, right?"

"Yeah."

He gave me several glances over his shoulder before he was swallowed again by the doorway. I sat a while, panting, and thought I heard something shrieking in the Grey. I felt better as soon as it stopped. I stood on loose legs and walked around to the front of the house.

To my eyes, the windows of the organ's den were dark. They neither shed nor reflected any light. The house that had seemed so pretty on Saturday now looked like something from a horror film, the stone-work overgrown with veins of fire and writhing Grey vines. I felt a scratching along the surfaces of my bones. I slammed a mental door against the persistence of vision and scurried back to my seat on the steps.

I felt stronger by the time Will returned, smiling and chatting to the curator as they parted company at the door. She stayed on the porch.

I looked up at Will. "Well?"

He dropped onto the steps beside me, folded like a paper crane, and made a face. "Well… it matches the description technically, but…" He shook his head. "It's not worth whatever your client's put into finding it. A lot of the decoration is bone and ivory that's… nonstandard. Modifications and repairs aren't unusual for an item like this, but…" He chewed his lower lip and looked at the ground. "My gut says there's something wrong. It doesn't even play, really. The whole thing's kind of unsettling. But it doesn't matter, because the current museum board won't sell."

"Why not?" I asked. I looked back at the woman on the porch.

She shook her head and called out, "It's the only Tracher parlor organ they could find, and current policy won't allow us to sell anything that matches original inventory. They're freaking out over the idea of permanent reductions. Though after what Will said, I think we'd be better off without it."

I hung my head, worn out, and sighed. "I know it's an imposition, but can I bring one more expert to look at it?"

"Sure, if you think it'll help. Especially if it covers the board's butt."

"It'll have to be after hours. This guy's not available during the day."

"Oh. Well, get in touch with me and we'll work it out. I'd like to hear we didn't buy a screaming fake."

We both thanked her for her time and we left the museum. Crossing the street, I turned for one more look at the organ's resting place. The ground seemed to roll beneath my feet as I looked a little side-ways of normal. The Grey snapped open, showing me an angry tangle of burning lines and shapes, boiling in a restless, sobbing mist. I jerked myself away from it, feeling a biting pain in my chest, and stumbled against Will. He held tight to my arm as we let ourselves out the drive-way gate.

We stopped beside the Rover. "Are you sure you feel OK?" Will asked.

"I'm fine. Probably just something I ate."

"Bull. We ate the same thing and I feel fine." He noticed the hard set of my mouth. "You don't want to talk about it."

"No, I don't."

He sighed. "All right. We'll keep this professional. I'll see if I can dig up anything about this organ. I got numbers off the action and case, and Tracher may still have some records I can start with. I'll let you know what I find."

"Thanks, Will."

He looked me over again, shook his head. "You know Mikey's going to grill me about you this evening, don't you?"

I gave a weak laugh. "Poor Will. Terrorized by a sixteen-year-old."

"Hey, there's a sixty-year-old Jewish mother in that sixteen-year-old body. Mike's not sure you're good for me."

"Oh, I'm sure I'm very bad for you. Very bad indeed."

"Mmm… very bad," he agreed. He leaned forward and kissed me, nibbling my lower lip. He murmured against my mouth, "I won't ask if you're OK, 'cause you're just going to stonewall me some more if I do."

I nodded. "Yep."

He sighed and backed off. "All right. But I will worry and you can't stop me. Be careful, Harper."

"I will."

"No—" he started.