"I will-just as soon as my evil twin dies. Then ... then I'll let women wear pants."
Edith cracked a smile. "No wonder they locked you up."
Selena looked up. "Pants ... like Andrew?"
Edith shook her head. "No, Selena. Absolutely not."
The narrow main street of Alabaster, Maine, glowed like its namesake in the rising sun. White clapboard houses, placed neatly on brown patches of dead grass and hemmed by white picket fences, told in wordless
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prose the tale of ordinary family life. Although it was quiet now in the last moments before dawn, the streets devoid of sound or motion, Ian could imagine this place on a summer's day. Crowded sidewalks and teeming streets; the warm, humid air thick with the sounds of a small town-children's laughter, adults talking, the steady clip-clop of horses' hooves on the stone pavement.
The carriage hurtled down the street without stopping or slowing, which was just as well, for Ian had no reason to do either. He had been through a hundred towns like this in his life. They dotted the New England countryside like pearls tossed across an immense emerald canvas.
Ever since childhood, Ian had secretly dreamed of living in a place like this, a place where neighbors knew each other and shared Sunday suppers, where mothers wore aprons and smiles and never spoke to their dead husbands aloud.
"I hate towns like this," Johann said dully. "Pretty on the outside and rotting within."
Ian felt a flash of anger. "Now who's the cynical bastard?"
Ian glanced out the window again. The brilliant orange sun had just crested the thick, black blanket of trees, throwing light on the still-darkened houses.
"Ah," Johann said, crossing one leg gracefully over the other. "I bet you wish you'd grown up here. Scratch the surface of a scientist and you'll find a dreamer."
Ian refused to be drawn into this conversation. "We'll be at the local law office any second. After that, I'll expect you to return to Lethe House and make my apologies."
"Not a chance."
"What?"
"If you must desert our fair moon-goddess, then do so. But you and you alone will tell her what you've done. I will tell them simply that you've gone to the
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city for brain surgery and a soul replacement. It certainly should be true."
"Fine."
An awkward silence fell into the carriage. Ian stared out the window, seeing little beyond the jostling blur of white and green.
Finally the carriage jerked to a stop. There was a scrambling overhead, then a thump, and the door creaked open. Ian's driver, Fergus, stood in the opening, his breath coming in great plumed feathers. He hooked a thumb at the building behind him. "There's the office, sir."
"Good. Unload my things, Fergus, and engage me another carriage. I shall be going on to New York City posthaste."
"And Mr. Strassborg?"
Ian's gaze remained steady. "Mr. Strassborg will be taking my carriage back to Lethe House immediately ... where he belongs."
"Ah, Ian." Johann's voice rang with derision. "You wound me to the quick."
Ian ignored the soft cadence of Johann's laughter as he jumped out of the carriage and strode up the dirt path to the squat, single-storied clapboard building that housed Alabaster's jail, courthouse, and post office.
At the door, he paused, then drew a deep breath and pushed through.
The room was large and airy, lit by several lanterns that hung suspended from rough-hewn beams across the ceiling. In the corner, a thin, stoop-shouldered old man sat behind a rickety wooden desk, a heap of rusty keys by his hand.
The old man looked up, an expectant light in his pale eyes. "Hello." He planted his hands on the desk and pushed to his feet. Stepping around the desk, he shuffled toward Ian, his hand outstretched in greeting. "Jed Larkham. What can I do for you, young man?"
Ian stared at the big-knuckled, gnarled hand. Instinc-
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tively he drew back and shoved his hands in the huge pockets of his cloak. "I'm Dr. Ian Carrick."
Jed jerked to a dead stop and yanked his hand back. Recognition widened his rheumy eyes and leeched the color from his cheeks. "Dr. Carrick." He whispered the name, glanced at the exit door behind him. "What a surprise. We'd heard-" He realized apparently that to speak was to err and snapped his mouth shut.
Ian's lips shifted in an amused sneer. "I'm sure you have."
Jed swallowed hard and hurried back to the safety of his desk, sitting down with an audible sigh. Only after long moments had passed in awkward silence did he look up. "Why are you in Alabaster?"
Ian walked across the room and sat down in the chair opposite the old man. "I've found a girl ... woman ..." He paused, trying to find the right words.
Jed strummed his finger nervously on the desk. "A 1-local girl?"
Ian's chin snapped up. He stared at the man through narrowed eyes. "This is not a matter of the heart, Mr. Larkham. The woman has come into my care in a medical matter. I simply want to return her to her family."
"Oh." The man's relief was palpable. "If you'll give me her name, I can tell you-"
"That's the problem," he answered. "She's suffered an injury to her brain from some manner of fall or collision. She doesn't recall her name ... or much else, for that matter. But someone out there must know an adult woman who is missing."
"You offering a reward?"
"And draw every crackpot for a thousand miles? No, thanks. I want someone-hopefully her family-to claim her, not just a pile of money."
Jed pulled his drawer open and extracted a sheet of paper and a pen. "What does she look like?"
"That's a problem, as well. She's bruised extensively. So much so that I cannot accurately describe her features.
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However, she has very long, reddish brown hair and brown eyes. I suppose she's about five foot seven inches tall." He thought a bit, trying to come up with anything else that would help her family identify her. "She has all her teeth and came to us without jewelry. Her age is probably somewhere between eighteen and fifty."
Jed set his pen down and plopped his chin in the palm of his hand. "This doesn't help much."
"I am aware of that. Is anyone missing in town?"
Jed shook his head. "Nope. But I'll post this for you and keep my eyes and ears open."
"Thank you, Mr. Larkham." He pushed the chair back and got to his feet. Turning, he headed for the door.
"Uh ... Dr. Carrick?"
Ian stopped but didn't bother to turn around. He knew what was coming now. It was what always followed. "Yes, Mr. Larkham?"
"I ... uh, that is, we all heard about your accident."
"It was no accident, Mr. Larkham."
"Yes, well, anyway, we heard that you'd been .. . changed by the ... event."
Ian released a bitter laugh.
"The mayor of Alabaster-that's old Thomas Mar-kette-he lost his twelve-year-old daughter recently. All we found was a bit of lace from her gown. I thought maybe if you could touch it ..."
Ian clenched his jaw and closed his eyes. It was always the same. People were afraid of him and didn't really believe in the rumors of his psychic abilities, but they weren't sure. They wanted him to prove it to them, help them answer the inexplicable and find the utterly lost, and then they would believe-for a second. But they would still be afraid, still shun him the second after he helped them, and God save him from their wrath when he failed.
Jed pulled a dirty, ripped bit of lace from a desk
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drawer. It looked small and frail in the man's gnarled fingers.
Ian stared at the lace, felt the familiar sense of panic, of uselessness, descend. He wanted to turn away, to tell the old man to forget it, that he was no real psychic. But he couldn't. As always, the lure was there, the hope that this time it would be different.
Slowly he reached out, took the scrap of fabric, scratchy, limp, and fragile.
Of course, he got no images, no information. Just the same sickeni
ng thought anyone would have-that a girl, a child, was out there somewhere, alone and lost. And there wasn't a damn thing Ian could do to save her.
He released the piece of lace as if it were suddenly on fire. It drifted to the desk, a blot of white against the burnished wood. "You have obviously been misinformed, Mr. Larkham. My gift-" the word dripped sarcasm "-does not extend to fondling bits of lace. Good day."
Ian strode down the gravel path, his head held high. He knew he was being absurd, but he felt unseen eyes on him, heard the whisper of gossip on the wind, felt it nipping at his heels.
He ought to be used to Larkham's reaction. It was common enough, but it had been so long since he'd been out in the world, he'd almost forgotten. Or the memory had become blurred, faded by too many bottles of scotch and too many nights alone. In some ways, he'd forgotten how frightening and compelling his curse was to everyone. People viewed him as something more than a man, and something less-a terrifying incarnation that was part Gabriel and part Satan. Except for the dreadful few who followed him like lapdogs, begging for the parlor trick of his touch.
He saw Fergus and the rented carriage awaiting him. Without a sideways glance, he climbed into the coach and thumped his fist on the ceiling. The carriage
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lurched forward, the door slammed shut. They were off to the next town.
The next town. The next pair of frightened eyes watching him warily, waiting for the infamous doctor to dissolve into hysteria, the next outstretched hand ...
He sighed. Perhaps he should give up.
What was Selena to him? He could continue to feed and support her for the rest of her life without a thought to the cost. She could remain under his roof for years, a nameless, faceless presence in the darkened hallways, saying nothing, thinking less. What was one more broken soul in the house of insanity?
Even as he had the thought, he knew the answer.
Selena would never be just another lunatic at Lethe House. She would haunt him with her presence, with her very existence, every day, every night, for the remainder of his sorry life. With every movement she took, he'd find himself reaching out to help her; with every stumbling word she uttered, he'd find himself praying for more. He remembered her as she'd been the other morning-sitting on the floor, her hair and face a horrible mess, a dead mouse dangling from her fingertips. Then he remembered Elizabeth, sitting by the window, a silvery trail of drool rolling down her cheek, plopping on her lap. The two images merged in his mind and caused a sickening sense of loss and shame. If only he were a stronger, better man. A man who could care for her as she was-brain-damaged and imperfect. A man who needed less and therefore saw more.
But he wasn't such a man. For him, nothing could be worse than seeing Selena slowly disintegrate into Elizabeth. Nothing. It would kill him, just as it killed Giles. Bit by bit, day by day, Ian would lose what little hold he had on his own sanity. It was that simple. He had to get rid of her to save his own soul.
It was childish and selfish ... and true. He wasn't one to glamorize his failings or pretend they didn't exist.
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He was a selfish man and always had been. But never had it been as disgustingly apparent as it was right now.
He'd stay away as long as he could, meet as many strangers as he had to. And he'd pray that someone would come for his broken goddess.
Chapter Twelve
Selena lay in bed with the thick folds of her coverlet drawn close. For a few precious seconds, before she came fully awake, the promise of a new dawn filled her consciousness. It was still dark outside, but soon, soon the dawn would come.
Today they'd promised to take her outside.
She eased her eyelids open and stared at the window. Even the shadowed streaks of the iron bars couldn't daunt her enthusiasm today. She stretched languidly and pushed the coverlet back. Sitting up, she glanced around the room, trying to remember the morning sequence she'd been taught by Lara.
Wash your face. Sit on the toilet.
Selena smiled at the ease with which she retrieved the memory. She swung her stockinged feet onto the cold wooden floor and walked to the commode. It felt strangely inappropriate to walk. On such a special day, she should move in a flowing, magical way.
She poured tepid water into the porcelain bowl and washed her face. Reaching for the towel beside the basin, she caught sight of her reflection in the oval mirror and paused, her hand frozen in midair.
She leaned closer to the mirror, able to see the shape of her face at last. Her eyes were no longer swallowed by swollen layers of bruised flesh. She could see them
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clearly now, and in looking into her own eyes, she felt as if she were finally seeing some portion of herself.
Mesmerized, she touched her own cheek and marveled at the soft pliancy of her flesh. The ugly purple and black bruising had softened to a sick greenish yellow with tinges of brown.
Selena thought it was the most beautiful color she'd ever seen. It was the color of change, the color of healing.
She touched the cool, slick surface of the mirror. "Who are you?" she whispered, watching in fascination as her pale pink lips formed the words. Dark, mysterious brown eyes stared back at her. She tried to care about the answer, genuinely tried. It was what they all expected of her, what Ian expected. But she couldn't manufacture concern where none existed. She didn't care about the past; what she wanted was the future. She ached to begin, to cross the threshold of this room and this house and explore this new world, to experience sensations and thoughts and feelings that she couldn't even imagine.
Today she'd take her first step. Yesterday she'd spent all day in the house. Edith had taught her to pluck the feathers from a dead, clammy bird (which she refused on principle to eat; it was horrid, really, to think of eating a once-living animal). After the plucking fiasco, Edith had moved her from the kitchen to the parlor and taught her to wipe the furniture with a thick, waxy substance that smelled heavenly.
So heavenly that Selena had eaten it. That's when Edith moved her into the bedroom. Selena still didn't entirely understand the teachings of that day, couldn't pinpoint exactly what she'd done so wrong, but she'd learned one lesson clearly: She could eat dead animals, but not the cleaning supplies. It was a strange world with inexplicable rules. In the bedroom, she'd had a wee bit of trouble. She'd started out well enough with making the bed. Lara
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showed her how to beat the quilt and pillow into shape, and Selena had learned that lesson well.
She'd been doing fine until a beautiful white feather burped out of the pillow and floated on a draft of air from the open window.
Selena had never seen anything so lovely in all her life. A million motes of dust filtered the cold, sundrenched air. The curtains fluttered softly against the pane. And that exquisite feather just floated and floated, then fell to the floor.
Suddenly the pillow became a magical storehouse of hidden treasures. Selena ripped it wide open and plunged her hands in, tossing the down feathers all around. She and Lara laughed and played, mesmerized by the beauty and feel of the feather-storm.
Edith had not been mesmerized. All she'd seen was a mess, and when Selena tried to show her the elegance of a single feather in its dancing spiral to the floor, Edith was unimpressed.
In fact, the housekeeper had said quit this bloody nonsense.
Neither Selena nor Lara understood the word "nonsense," but Edith had shown them what "quit" was. The housekeeper had thrown her hands up in the air and stomped out of the room. She had not returned.
Selena understood then that she was no longer learning to be a housekeeper. It disappointed her, that unexpected failure, but she had tried not to be unhappy about it. She tried instead to focus on each new lesson.
She'd failed as a housekeeper, but she'd done well as a subject of the Crown. The queen had expressed great pleasure over Selena's successes. Even now, Selena recalled how to drop into the strange motion calle
d a curtsy. She remembered, too, that she was to curtsy to everyone in the house except Edith, who was the help, and Lara, who was feebleminded, and Edith's husband, who was a hopeless drunk and stupid besides.
Everyone else, declared the queen, was Selena's so-
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cial superior and, as such, required a curtsy. Especially the king.
Selena had curtsied so much, she felt dizzy every time someone new walked into the room. But she'd done it, followed the odd custom and mastered a new skill. She could also pour and sip the tasteless, tongue-scalding liquid called T, and do it with her pinky finger pointing to the ceiling. And the queen pronounced Selena's royal wave second to none.
Selena turned away from the mirror at last and reached for the bronze gown, which lay heaped over the back of her chair. She winced at the thought of putting it on again and involuntarily drew her hand back.
Everything they'd taught her about being a lady was either uncomfortable or senseless. She wanted to refuse, wanted to wear pants like Andrew's and a big silk shut that hung loose to her knees. She wanted big, bold colors, too, colors that reminded her of words like sky, sea, dandelion, iris, grass. Somehow, the colors brought back more images and memories than anything else. A white nightdress made her think of snow and frost and starlight, of a steaming stream of milk from a cow's pink teat, of a daisy's velvet petals. Sometimes she had the words to match the images, sometimes she simply received a mental picture and the word would inexplicably pop into her head an hour later. It didn't matter; all that mattered were the so-called memories, the bits and pieces that hinted at a beautiful world out there, a universe of sight and sound and vibrant color. A mysterious world that beckoned her with seductive possibilities.
And today she would see it for the first time. She picked up the dress, which reminded her suddenly that green leaves turn brown in the autumn, and slipped it over her head. Smoothing the folds of ecru lace at the throat, she buttoned the tight bodice and skirt and went to the bed to wait.
Freedom was moments away.
Ml
* * *
The knock came. Selena lurched out of bed and heard the wrenching hiss of torn fabric. Wincing, she glanced down, and saw that her bodice had ripped open, revealing a wide swath of her white chemise. Her breasts swelled over the lacy neckline.
The knock sounded again. "Selena?" Andrew said through the closed door. "Are you decent?"
Selena frowned. Decent. She must have misunderstood the word-she thought it meant moral, and moral meant nice. Why would Andrew ask if she was nice? "Yes."
"Good." The door opened wide and Andrew walked through. He grinned down at her. Then suddenly he froze. His gaze widened, fixed on her chemise. "Y-Your gown."
"Tight."
Color crept up his neck and fanned across his face. "Y-Yes, but ..." He glanced back at the door, as if he was going to run away.
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