Through the Looking Glass

by Kay Hooper

  “You’re saying I’ll hurt you,” he said. The music stopped then. Appropriate, Gideon thought.

  “No, that isn’t what I’m saying.” Maggie stepped back and away from him, then turned and preceded him from the dance floor. When they were sitting at their table again, she reached over to pat Leo’s drowsy head. “He’s half asleep. The milk, I guess.”

  “Maggie, look at me.”

  She did, smiling. “I’m not saying you’ll hurt me, Gideon. At least not intentionally. I’m just saying that, for me, you’re forever. And despite my flaky appearance, I’m quite conventional about some things. Romantic, I suppose. I’ve waited this long because no man was forever. You are. There won’t be anyone else for me.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “Of course I can. I told you. We only love once. Like wolves and hawks, we mate for life. If you consider that a burden, then you’d better go back to San Francisco now.”

  “You’re just trying to get me away from the carnival for a while,” he said, hoping that was it.

  Her smile faded and she shook her head slightly. “No. And I don’t want you to think it. Gideon, finding Merlin’s killer is important to me, but you’re more important. I don’t want you to leave, even though I don’t like the fact that somebody’s watching you, and I’d probably have an easier job of it if you did go. But I’m talking about the two of us, not what’s going on around us. And I’m not playing a game, with or without rules. I’m simply telling you the truth.”

  “That you love me.”

  She nodded. “That I love you.”

  He eyed her. “Will I sleep in your wagon tonight?”

  “If you want to.”

  “In your bed?”

  “I’d like that,” she said simply, with all the trusting anticipation of innocent longing.

  Gideon yanked his gaze away from her and stared at his empty glass. He thought of ordering another drink, but discarded the impulse. Dutch courage wasn’t going to help, he decided. “You are the most contrary woman I’ve ever met,” he muttered. “Yesterday, you said we were moving too fast. Or I was.”

  “That was yesterday.”

  “I see. Today, you love me, and you say it’s forever.”

  “It is.”

  He sighed and glanced at his watch. Odd. Minutes ago, he thought he had figured out how to respond to Maggie and her world—throw out the rule book and act on impulse. But all his impulses seemed to be scrambled. Baffled and more than a little unnerved, he was back where he’d started and with an additional feeling of responsibility because it meant so much to her. How much did it mean to him?

  She was offering what he’d said he wanted—for them to be lovers. Yet, at the same time, she was saying that it was serious for her, that it had to be, because she loved him. She was making a commitment.

  Gideon felt more than a little wary of her prediction that her love would change him, mark him forever. If any other woman had said it, he doubted he’d believe it at all; he’d consider it only words, nice romantic words that sounded lovely and faded in the face of reality. But Maggie had said those words, said them with utter certainty. With no tinge of possessiveness in her voice she’d said that he would belong to her, and she to him. She meant it, believed it.

  He had a feeling he should, too.

  So he couldn’t just reach for what he wanted without counting the cost to Maggie…and perhaps to himself. He owed it to them both to be completely aware of the consequences. If he couldn’t believe at least that they had a future together, then he had no right to be in her bed.

  “Gideon?”

  “Our table should be ready,” he said abruptly. “I’ll take Leo back out to the car, and then we can eat.”

  “Fine,” she said agreeably.

  —

  Tina was sitting on the steps of her wagon when Gideon’s rented car returned to the encampment. It was nearly nine, but summer’s dusk provided enough light to see clearly. She watched them get out, saw Leo bound from the backseat.

  He had been with them. Lamont owed her a dollar; she’d guessed right. The cat hurried toward her, and she silently moved aside to let him into her wagon where his food dish was.

  Maggie spoke briefly to Gideon, who nodded, and then she went off toward the animals to do her nightly check. Tina kept her gaze on Gideon, watching as he strolled toward Maggie’s wagon and then stood looking at his new tent. He wasn’t a man who gave away much, Tina thought, but it was obvious he was struggling with a knotty problem. After a thoughtful moment Tina rose and made her way over to Maggie’s wagon.

  The rest of the camp was fairly quiet with everyone settling down for the night; the only sounds were of Sean, Buster, and Richie—the carnival’s only other youngster, whose parents ran the refreshments concession—tossing a football near the edge of the woods.

  Reaching Maggie’s wagon, Tina leaned against one of the rear wheels and studied Gideon’s brooding face. “Hi,” she offered. “Have a nice dinner?”

  He looked up from his baleful contemplation of the new tent and half nodded. “Sure.”

  “I hope Leo didn’t cause problems.”

  “None to speak of.”

  “He wasn’t the one, huh?”

  After a moment Gideon said, “Does it show so plainly?”

  “Only around the edges.” Apparently going off on a tangent, Tina said, “You know, I gave Maggie a reading when she first joined the carnival.”

  “Reading?”

  “Madame Valentina knows all,” she said with only a slight hint of mockery. “Crystal balls, tea leaves, tarot cards.”

  “A scam,” Gideon said dryly.

  She was unoffended. “Maybe. Sometimes. But I always like to leave room for possibilities. Gypsy blood will tell, I guess. Because sometimes I see past the props. With Maggie, I definitely did.”

  “All right, I’ll bite,” he said. “What did you see?”

  “A mirror.”

  He frowned a little. “I don’t get it.”

  “I didn’t either, at first,” Tina admitted. “But then I watched Maggie for a few days. And I realized that she was always what people expected her to be, an instant reflection of their idea of what she was. Just like a mirror.”

  Gideon didn’t believe in fortune-telling, but the observation made sense, and Tina’s conclusions sounded so right that he felt a sudden, odd shift inside himself as if things were rapidly falling into place. “I thought of her as a chameleon,” he said slowly.

  “That’s true, as far as it goes. She changes to suit her surroundings. I imagine she’d fit into place almost anywhere you’d care to name.”

  “A born actress?”

  “No, it’s more than that. Much more complicated, in fact. Hers isn’t simply an outward change; she becomes different inside—or opens up a new part of herself. It’s completely instinctive and probably unconscious, although I’m sure she knows the ability is hers.” Tina smiled slightly. “You would have understood it in time, I think.”

  “Then why tell me?”

  Softly, she said, “Because I saw your face in the mirror.”

  “What?”

  She nodded. “Weeks ago. I knew you’d be the one—maybe the only one—to reach past the reflection. Gideon, we all need to be seen as we truly are by at least one other person. Until you can look at Maggie without your ideas of what she is getting in the way, you’ll never see her clearly. Until you look at her with no expectations, she’ll always reflect your ideas of her.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Gideon said. “I want to see her clearly. Dammit, that’s what I’ve been trying to do almost every moment since I got here!”

  “And she’s trying to help you. Fighting her own nature. That’s why she baffles you. The problem with you two is that it’s all happening too fast, with no time to think, and you believe that’s what you need to do.”

  “Think? Of course I should think about this.”

  Tina shook her head slightly. “T
hinking about love isn’t going to help you. It’s an emotion, remember? An instinct. The mind looks for reasons and explanations. The heart just feels. Maggie is a creature of instinct and emotion, Gideon; what she feels will always be more important than what she thinks. What you think of her is getting in the way. Why don’t you try feeling about her? You might be surprised.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, then said abruptly, “What’s your story, Tina? Why are you here?”

  “Have you heard the saying that shrinks are always crazier than their patients?” She waited for his nod, then said cheerfully, “I have a doctorate in psychiatry. I worked in a mental hospital. One day about eight years ago I decided I’d better leave. Good night, Gideon.” She turned and strolled off in the direction of her wagon.

  He gazed after her, wondering why he wasn’t surprised.

  Was Tina right about him and Maggie? His mind was telling him the whole thing was absurd, lunatic, yet it felt right. Felt…Was that the problem? Was his rational mind so insistent on reasoning everything out that his instincts and emotions were clouded? In trying so hard to understand Maggie, had he closed down the only part of him that could understand her?

  Throw out the rule book and act on impulse…He hadn’t been able to do it. To announce it, yes, to say to himself that was the way to cope. Then Maggie had said she loved him. Why? Why then? Because, he realized slowly, she knew where impulse would lead him. She knew they’d be lovers. Her own feelings made a simple physical relationship impossible, so she had to warn him, stop him before he followed impulse into an emotional tangle that would hurt them both.

  Throw out the rule book—yes. But impulse? No. So far, his impulses had come from physical desire and mental frustration; he hadn’t let himself feel except with his senses.

  Maggie’s a creature of instinct and emotion…And he was a rational man, a man whose work dealt with numbers and logic and carefully calculated risks. A man whose life had followed the safe, well-traveled pathways.

  Until now. With no road to guide him, no compass that didn’t whirl madly, he had tried to cling to logic and reason, and found both failing him at every turn.

  “Gideon?”

  Maggie had appeared from around the end of the wagon. Looking fiercely at her, he said somewhat violently, “God, you’re complicated!”

  She blinked, then smiled. “I’m sorry. I would say I never promised you a rose garden, but I’ve never understood why that’s supposed to be easy. Gardens are hard work, especially when they’re filled with roses. Because they’re pretty, I suppose, and pleasant. Still, they have lots of thorns.”

  “I’m in the middle of a crisis,” Gideon said, “and you’re talking about roses.”

  “It was just a thought,” she explained apologetically. “I didn’t intend to belittle your crisis. You have had a rough day, haven’t you?”

  “I’ve had better, let’s say. Has Jasper come back?”

  “No, there’s been no sign of him. The others expect he’ll be back by morning. Maybe he will.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “Maybe he will,” she repeated steadily.

  After a moment Gideon crossed the space to the steps of her wagon and sat down. It was getting dark now, but there was a full moon and he could see her easily. “Did you know Tina had a doctorate?” he asked conversationally.

  “Yes.”

  “In psychiatry?”

  “Yes. Have you been on her couch?”

  “Something like that.” He sighed. “So were you…in absentia.”

  “Oh. Any insights?”

  “Plenty. That’s why I said you’re complicated. Maggie, why do you love me?”

  She looked at him gravely. “I haven’t asked myself the question, Gideon. Why should I? If something exists, it is. The reasons aren’t important.”

  “I wish I understood that.” He got to his feet slowly. “Until I do, I guess I’d better sleep in the tent. Good night, Maggie.”

  “Good night.”

  —

  The watcher kept close to the shadows of a wagon on the other side of the camp, still and silent as the two he observed parted outside her wagon. It had been too light for him to get any nearer to them without risking being discovered, so he hadn’t been able to hear what they were saying.

  Was he still safe? Gideon Hughes was the danger, but she baffled him; her sudden arrival at the carnival had made him definitely nervous. He’d thought her a flake at first, but weeks of her presence had told him different. Not dumb, no, not dumb at all. Not crazy, either, not like most of the others here. He had worried about her…until Hughes came.

  Fate was against him, that was it. What other possible reason could there be for Hughes to show up so damned far from San Francisco? It wasn’t fair. Who could have guessed that a man like him would be in any way connected with something as bizarre as Wonderland? He’d remember. Sooner or later he’d remember, make the connection.

  Heart thudding, the watcher made himself calm down. It was all right. Doubtful that Hughes knew about Merlin, and as for Jasper, he was just missing, that was all. Damn the old man for coming up missing just when the last thing he wanted was more questions asked! And there was something odd he had noticed that he didn’t like. Carnies talked among themselves, sharing a liking for speculation and gossip—but nobody was talking about Merlin. At least not to him. He had the uneasy feeling that was a bad sign; they might not be able to be certain the old man’s death wasn’t an accident, but they were all suspicious enough to be silent on the matter—and tense about it.

  He had to stay calm, not panic. Everything would be all right if he didn’t panic and do something stupid. He glanced around warily, then slipped from the shadows and moved silently back toward his own place.

  A few moments later, another—much smaller—shadow darted between the wagons until it reached one with the door open and light spilling out.

  “Sean,” Tina said sternly as the boy came in, “I’ve told you not to wander around out there in the dark.”

  “It ain’t dark, Ma. Moon’s up. You can see out there like it was daylight. Almost, anyway.”

  “Well, never mind. Wash up and get ready for bed.”

  —

  All the privacy of a goldfish, Maggie thought vaguely as she got ready for bed. It was hardly surprising that Tina had offered her insights to Gideon, especially considering the life she used to live. The only surprise was that the others hadn’t gotten in on the courtship. On second thought, Maggie wasn’t surprised by that, either; the tension in the carnival was distracting everybody.

  That tension wasn’t helping Gideon. Even worse, Maggie knew it would probably be several days—if then—before Uncle Cyrus found any information of use to them. They could do nothing except wait.

  Maggie crawled into bed and blew out her lamp, wondering with a heart-clenching pang if Gideon would stay now or if she had lost him by telling the truth. He was off balance and troubled by it, and he was not the kind of man who could accept that state of mind for long. He’d accused her of being complicated—and it had been an accusation—but he was no less complex. An honorable man, or he’d be in her bed right now. Humorous enough to play straight man to a cat. A man who wanted things to make sense even when they didn’t.

  The problem was that love didn’t make sense. Maggie knew that. It wasn’t a reasoned thing, a calculated thing. She had no idea why it was Gideon she loved rather than any of the men she had known over the years. She hadn’t a clue as to which quality or qualities of his had touched something deep inside her.

  All she knew was that she loved him.

  Ever since she’d admitted to him that she was in love with him, she had held a tight rein on her own emotions. As a child, Maggie had more than once suffered because she felt things so deeply, because feelings mattered so much to her. What she remembered most clearly from her earliest childhood weren’t scenes or objects, or even people—just emotions so intense they’d been sh
attering. She had quite literally made herself sick with excitement or joy, grief or pain.

  The years had brought a certain amount of control, naturally, but even now when her feelings became so intense they were painful, she had learned to turn away, to deflect them until she had time to breathe, to calm down. At such moments her mind darted off on tangents, schooled to shy away from intensity.

  She wondered if Gideon had thought she was being flippant with her vague talk of rose gardens. But she’d wanted so badly to throw her arms around him, to let the wild feelings inside her burst out where there was room for them. As a child, the strength of her emotions had caused adults to step back in surprise, shaken by the intensity her small body held; but what was inside her now made everything else she had ever felt pale by comparison.

  You’re saying I’ll hurt you.

  She hadn’t wanted him to believe that, unwilling to use a very real kind of emotional blackmail. He would hurt her if he left, she knew, hurt her in a way a part of her wouldn’t survive, but it wasn’t his fault. If he couldn’t love her, then he couldn’t; he wasn’t to blame. To tie a man’s heart with pity and guilt was not only cruel, it was tragic, and she wanted no part of it no matter what the cost to her.

  Maggie turned onto her back and stared at the dark ceiling, unconsciously pressing both hands to her middle underneath the covers as if she could hold it in. It. The violence of feeling that was like madness.

  She hardly slept that night, but rose at dawn to feed the animals. Farley joined her when she was half finished, kilted and cheerful as always, scolding her for dragging a heavy bag of feed out of the supply wagon.

  “I’m not as puny as I look,” she said mildly, watching as he tossed the bag easily over his shoulder.

  He paused to eye her thoughtfully. “ ‘Puny’ isn’t the word I’d use, lass. But you do seem a mite pale this mornin’, and that’s a fact. Bad night?”

  “A bout of insomnia.” She shrugged. “It happens. We should exercise the animals today, they’re getting fat.”

  “Another fact. Start after breakfast?”