He didn't. His blue gaze held hers in a velvet, reassuring grip. His smile was so bright, it felt like sunlight on her face, heating her, warming her. "I amlan," he said softly. "Who are you?"
She concentrated very hard, watching his mouth move, and she thought she discerned three word pat-
47
terns in the gibberish he spoke. Very slowly, she tried to repeat it. "I ... am ... Ian."
A tiny frown flinched in his thick eyebrows. The brightness of his smile dimmed a fraction. "Say, Ian."
She'd done something wrong, had somehow disappointed him. She stared up at him, her mouth trembling, trying to divine the answer in his eyes. But nothing came to her. She was trying so hard to please him, but it felt as if she were wrapped in clouds, layers and layers of fuzzy gray softness.
Say. What did that mean ... say? She frowned in concentration, staring into his blue eyes as if they held the answers to the universe.
And it came to her. She knew suddenly, simply knew. Say meant speak. Talk. Say Ian. He wanted her to repeat what he'd said.
She opened her mouth to answer him and forgot what she'd been going to say. She made a small, moaning sound of frustration.
"It'sokay," he said finally. "Whoareyou?"
Whoareyou? She tried hopelessly to decipher the code, to find the secret meaning of his words. Whoareyou?
He released a small sigh. "It'sokay . . . okay . . . enoughfor today. We've been calling you Selena. That will have to do for now." He turned slightly, and she felt his weight shift off of the bed. He was leaving her.
"No!" She reached for him, clinging to his arm. Don't leave me. The words exploded in her head. She fought to release them, to make him understand what she was feeling, what she wanted. To explain how, even now, the horror of the darkness sat curled in the shadows of the room, waiting .. . waiting ...
The moisture in her eyes burned, cascaded down her cheeks. Her whole body shook with frustration. She couldn't find the words. Somewhere between her brain and her mouth, the plea was lost forever. She stared at him, ashamed and afraid. Please .. . The single word
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flitted through her mind, too elusive to catch or fully understand.
"You want me to stay?"
Stay. The word was like a gift from God, perfect. She understood.
"Tree," she said in a rush. At his frown, she knew that she'd done something wrong again. The wrong word had slipped from her mouth. He didn't understand. He was pulling away again.
She tightened her hold, feeling the hard muscles of his arm beneath the soft fabric of his sleeve. "Basket." She winced. No. Not right again.
The smile he gave her this time was a little sad. "You'll be allright," he murmured, stroking the matted hair from her forehead, wiping the moisture from her cheeks. "Youneedn't cry."
Cry. The moisture in her eyes. She remembered suddenly that the water was called tears when it came from the eyes. She'd been crying tears.
"You'llbefine . .. need sleep." He sighed again, and like the smile before it, the gesture was strangely sad.
She offered him a smile, though it hurt to do so. She wanted so much to express what was in her heart, to tell her golden god that she already was fine, that she was everything he wanted her to be. She couldn't remember anything, couldn't find the words to unlock her emotions or tell him how she felt, but still she knew. In some hidden, primeval pocket of her soul, the knowledge existed. She loved him.
"I am ... Ian," she whispered, placing her hand over his, feeling the comforting warmth of his flesh against hers. Of course she was fine. God was with her. Still smiling, she fell asleep.
Ian stared down at Selena. She was sleeping peacefully now; there was no evidence that she'd slipped back into the coma.
She had spoken to him, touched him. Even now,
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he could feel the warm imprint of her hand on his arm, could feel the warm moisture of her tears on his fingertips.
She had been confused and aphasic, but that was normal, that was to be expected. According to the dozens of books he'd read, no one knew precisely how damage to the brain could affect behavior. Every case was different. But some level of aphasia was to be expected. It was completely normal that Selena would have difficulty retrieving words and speaking and remembering the morphology and syntax of the English language.
Normal.
He sighed, feeling suddenly old.
He'd forgotten what it was truly like to be a doctor. In the past six years, he'd idealized it, had cultivated a glistening, perfect memory of his halcyon days in medicine. He'd remembered the successes, the parties, the flamboyance.
Somewhere along the way, he'd forgotten the terrifying uncertainties, the agonizing fear. The constant dread that a patient would die.
Or be brain-damaged.
Jesus, how had he forgotten all that? How could he have forgotten the times he sat up all night, standing in the shadows of a patient's room, just watching the person breathe? Praying that each breath would be followed by another, and another, and another?
How had he lived through it back then?
It came to him all at once.
Confidence.
That was how he'd manipulated his world and made it from day to day, brushing off the failures and relishing the successes. He'd been supremely, arrogantly self-confident. He'd believed in himself, in his hands, in his power to heal.
He needed that confidence again.
Aphasia was normal. Her recovery was proceeding
SO
nicely. He repeated the words over and over again until he believed them.
It was too early to think that something was wrong. He'd keep working, keep believing in her and in himself. Together they could slay the medical dragons, together they would triumph. Dr. Carrick and his most challenging patient, changing the face of medical science.
"Together, Selena," he whispered, taking her hand in his. "Together, we'll get through this. You'll be fine."
He closed his eyes and imagined Harvard again, his triumphant return to medicine.
It would happen because he demanded it. She would awaken and she would be injured�of course, she'd be terribly injured�but not irreparably damaged. He would work with her, test her, devote his life to her. Anything to heal her.
And if he had to, he'd create her.
Pushing back in his chair, he got to his feet. "I'll be right back, Selena. I promised the rabble I'd give them a report."
They were all in the drawing room.
He paused at the door, hating the thought of opening it. In the six years since his return, he'd kept himself as removed from these people as possible. They were only here to assuage his guilt, anyway. He'd wanted Maeve to be less lonely, and he'd willfully misinterpreted her requests for companionship. She'd wanted Ian with her. In answer to her need, he'd turned Lethe House into a private asylum and opened their home to people like his mother, pretending that that was good enough. He'd tried to give her a family instead of being her family. They didn't need a doctor, this group of misfits and lunatics that society had washed from their collective conscience. Oh, occasionally Ian prescribed a headache powder or directed Edith to dress a wound or stitch a cut, but nothing more taxing than that. He was their
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keeper, nothing more, and it was more than enough for the families of these poor unfortunates. For Lethe House provided what the families wanted, what proper Victorian society demanded: pretense. And that's what everyone�including Ian�did so easily. Shut these people away and pretend they didn't exist.
He went inside and immediately regretted it. The room made him think of his father, the memories wafting back into his subconscious as subtly as the fragrance of the old man's cigar. As a young boy, he'd come into this room often, slipping into the darkness and curling onto the crushed velvet of the settee, to wait for his father to come home.
She didn 't know who I was at supper tonight. Why is she like that, Papa .. . why?
&
nbsp; Neither this room nor his father had ever held an answer to Ian's questions. And now he was here again, seeking answers to questions he couldn't even name, waiting once more.
It was a studiously powerful room. A huge mahogany fireplace dominated the burgundy and black chamber. On its carved mantel, a trio of silver candleholders housed bloodred candles, their flames reflected in the immense seventeenth-century mirror that hung above it. Ornately framed paintings covered every square inch of the claret-painted walls, red and black Aubusson rugs covered most of the planked flooring.
The chamber was dark and somehow bloody, just as his father had intended it to be. A man's room in a man's house, full of hunting trophies and pictures of dying soldiers. Even the knickknack tables were thick and heavy and held ashtrays instead of vases.
No woman had ever had a hand in decorating this house, and it showed in every room.
"How is she, Doctor?"
Ian heard Andrew's question and he ignored it as he poured himself a Madeira.
"Why, I would say she's damned poor, Andrew,"
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Johann drawled. "Unless, of course, you think 'basket' was what she meant to answer. And there is the possibility that she's named, most coincidentally, Ian."
"Shut up, Johann," Ian said, not taking his gaze from the red and gold highlights in his glass.
"Ah, Dr. Carrick," Johann said with a dramatic sigh, "once again you comfort me. I can only imagine the help you'll be when the syphilis actually kills me."
Finally, Ian looked up and saw Johann in the rippling, silvered glass. "You've been 'dying' for years. I think you enjoy the drama of it."
A flash of honest emotion�maybe anger, maybe pain�flashed through Johann's eyes. "I promised someone I would keep breathing. Even if I didn't want to." He paused for a second, drew in a deep, shaking breath, then forced a smile. "Of course, that's not something the mighty Carrick could ever understand."
"Dr. Carrick?" Andrew said.
Ian knew that he had to answer them. If he didn't, Andrew would just keep asking and asking. It was either turn and run, or turn and answer. And he was too damned tired to run.
He turned around slowly, faced the group of people clustered in the eastern corner of the room. Andrew stood stiff and at attention, his arms pressed close along his sides. Johann leaned against the wall, his shoulder insolently pressed into the painting of a battle. Dotty was hiding amidst the velvet curtains that separated this room from the parlor�apparently the broom closet was full tonight. Queen Victoria was sitting on the dainty settee, her threadbare skirts splayed out around her. Lara lurked in the shadowy background alongside Maeve.
He sighed at the sight of his mother. She sat in a rocking chair, clutching a stuffed squirrel, laughing quietly to herself, twirling that damned scrap of fabric through her fingers.
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Ian drained the last of his Madeira and put the glass on the mantel. "The truth is, I don't know how she is."
"Certainly you don't. You're a doctor," Johann said.
Ian ignored him. "She just came out of a coma that lasted nearly twenty-one days. Anyone would be ... disoriented. But she showed some signs of understanding. That, at least, was encouraging, I should think."
"Very encouraging," Andrew said solemnly.
"Oh, for God's sake, why don't you fling yourself at him and be done with it?" Johann snapped, shoving Andrew toward Ian.
"Enough," Ian hissed. "Jesus, why do I bother with you people?" He grabbed his empty glass and strode for the door.
Johann's sarcastic voice followed him out. "That's easy, Herr Doctor. You're one of us. And so, apparently, is your precious Selena."
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Chapter Five
They were all in her room again, God and the strangers. She felt their eyes on her, felt their combined expectations like a consistent, crushing weight on her chest. She wanted to please God, wanted it desperately. But he was easily disappointed, and she was so sleepy. The pain in her head was agonizing.
He moved toward the bed and sat down on his chair. She heard the wooden legs skid across the floor as he scooted close. "Selena." His warm, honeyed voice melted across her skin like a caress. "How about a few tests?"
She groaned. A vague memory taunted her mind, some dim recollection of a movement that signaled her refusal. She concentrated, willed it to the surface . . . something about her head, moving it in some way . . . side to side ... up and down. It wouldn't come. She looked up at him, pleading with her eyes for understanding.
"Please?"
The softness of his voice tugged at her heart. She saw the disappointment in his gaze and felt ashamed. This was the man who had saved her. She struggled to rise to her elbows. At the movement, the pounding in her head intensified. Nausea settled heavily in her stomach.
His strong arm curled around her waist, drew her close. Sliding the coverlet back, he gently tilted her up-
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right. Her bare legs swung over the bed and dangled above the floor. He moved out of the chair and sat beside her on the bed. She let out a little sigh and leaned against him, pressing her cheek into the solid ball of his shoulder.
"Are you okay on your own now?"
She stared at his mouth, trying to unravel the secret of his words, but it was hard to concentrate. Her head was on fire.
He started talking again, too fast, always too fast. Asking questions and more questions, looking at her, staring at her. Waiting.
Frustration magnified the pounding in her skull. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out except a gasping, guttural groan, and then, finally, a wheezing "... now ..." that seemed to take forever.
"Take your time, Selena. Concentrate."
She couldn't understand him. Nothing. Her frustration spilled into anger. She should know how to speak, should be able to understand and answer his questions. Then, all at once, the anger was gone, and all she had left was the pain. She curled forward and cradled her hammering head in sweaty hands. Make it stop . . . make it stop.
He slipped his arms around her and drew her close. "It's okay, Selena. Don't worry. It's okay."
She melted into his arms. The urgent sense of despair faded away. As always, the sound of his voice eased her frustration and fear.
"Here, come with me." He tightened his hold on her shoulder and helped her stand.
The floorboards were delightfully cold on her bare feet. He maneuvered her across the room, past the strangers, to the small glass box in the wall. With one finger, he flicked back the lacy white curtain and offered her the world.
It was so beautiful, so unexpectedly magnificent, that for a second, she forgot her headache. The large lawn,
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wearing the lush green coat of spring, rolled out from the house into a thick glade of towering evergreen trees. Dozens of pale new buds sparkled on still bare tree limbs. Beyond, the sea was an endless, hammered sheet of silver, rolling gently into the rocky shoreline. A single bird circled above the water, crying out its keening wail as it dove, wings tucked, into the icy blue.
She reached for the bird. Her knuckles cracked into something cold and brittle and invisible. She drew back, confused. "Want ..." was all she could manage to say.
He touched her wrist, gently drew her hand toward him. "Let's do another test, okay?"
She tried to tell him that she wanted to go outside, wanted to see the world that lay beyond this dark, too quiet room. Her mouth opened, closed. Nothing came out. She could think the thoughts, but she couldn't translate them into speech. The headache started again.
He led her back to the bed and gave her a small board. She sat down and stared down at the thing he'd placed in her lap. It was a small wooden oval, dotted with holes.
He handed her a square peg. "Now, put that in the square hole."
Square hole. Neither of the words meant anything to her. She had no idea what he was asking her to do. She stared at the little wooden spike in her hand, trying to igno
re the pounding in her head.
"Go ahead."
Frustration exploded inside her, made her feel sick and shaky and utterly alone. What about her head?
"Selena�"
She threw the spike across the room and lurched to her feet. Unsteady, shaking, she started walking toward the strangers. She wasn't sure where she was going, or why, but suddenly she needed to move.
The people parted wordlessly. Behind them, she saw a small table, draped in lacy white fabric. A thick black
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tube sat on a pewter holder. Above the tube, a golden-purple light throbbed magically.
The beautiful, flickering light mesmerized her. She turned to God, tried to tell him how lovely it was, but again the words were lost between her brain and tongue.
He stared at her in silence, watching her through assessing, narrowed eyes. For the first time, she felt a coldness in his gaze, as if he'd given up on her.
Her stomach clenched. She looked away, moved toward the table.
He said something�meaningless mush of sound. Too fast. He was talking too fast, and she didn't want to listen anyway. She just wanted to see the sparkling color up close. She reached for it.
"No!"
She heard the shouted warning a second after she touched the wondrous light. Pain ignited on her fingertips. She gasped and yanked her hand back, staring down at the bright pink spots forming on her flesh.
"Jesus Christ." God pushed the strangers aside and grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her toward the commode. There, he splashed water from the pitcher into the porcelain basin and plunged her hand into it.
The pain vanished in liquid.
Confused, she glanced back at the tube. The bright color was gone; in its place, a skinny black string floated upward.
"Fire," Ian said, pointing to the tube. "Fire. Jesus Christ .. ."
The minute he said "fire," she remembered. The tube was a candle, and the beautiful red-gold spot was a flame. She looked up at Ian, tried to tell him that she understood. It took forever for her to say the single word. "Bench."
That disappointed look darkened his eyes again, and she felt a crushing sense of shame.
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"Poor thing, she's a bloomin' idiot," one of the strangers whispered.
"You should know," another answered before God shouted for silence.
She didn't understand the words, but she knew they were all disappointed in her. She'd done something wrong again.
"Go back to bed, Selena. We'll try again tomorrow." He looked at her. When she didn't move, he sighed and rolled his eyes. "Do you understand? Go back to bed now."
She swallowed the thick lump in her throat. She understood. He was disgusted with her. She was bad. Stupid.
He turned away. "Edith, take care of her."
"... God ..." She wanted to know what she'd done wrong. How to make him smile at her again.
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