Maybe there had been hands.
Apparently Tansy had not noticed anything. Her face was a white oval in the gloom. She was still humming a snatch of song. She did not ask what he had started to say.
He got up, walked unsteadily into the dining room, and poured himself a drink from the sideboard. On the way he switched on the lights.
So he couldn't tell Tansy or anyone else about it, even if he wanted to? That was why you never heard from real witchcraft victims. And why they never seemed able to escape, even if the means of escape were at hand. It wasn't weak will. They were watched. Like a gangster taken on a ride from an expensive night club. He must excuse himself from the loud-mouthed crowd at his table and laugh heartily, and stop to chat with friends and throw a wink at the pretty girls because right behind him are those white-scarfed, top-hatted trigger boys, hands in the pockets of their velvety dress overcoats. No use dying now. Better play along. There might be a chance.
But that was storybook stuff, movie stuff.
He nodded at himself in the glass above the sideboard.
"Meet Professor Saylor," he said. "The distinguished ethnologist and firm believer in real witchcraft—"
But the face in the glass did not look so much disgusted as frightened.
He mixed himself another drink, and one for Tansy, and took them into the living room.
"Here's to wickedness," said Tansy. "Do you realize you haven't been anywhere near drunk since Christmas?"