Reaching up, Stevie found a dressing on her head. She could feel a distinct tender lump beneath it. The pain made her feel sick. Tears of delayed shock flooded her eyes. Anger too. How dare someone stroll in and attack her like that?
Of course I should have called the police, she thought in despair. What was I thinking? Not thinking. Concussed. Acting on autopilot. Yet she was still certain that concealing the truth was her only option.
“Where’s my bag? Can I use my phone in here? I need to call someone.” She would have to ask Fin to open up in the morning.
“No, complete rest for now. We can call them for you.”
“No—no, it’s all right. They might rush here, and I don’t want that. I’ll try first thing tomorrow.”
Stevie realized, now she’d set her fake story in motion, that she would have to lie to Fin. To everyone.
* * *
Stevie dozed restlessly, woozy from medication. It didn’t help that a nurse woke her every five minutes: so it felt, anyway. Opening her eyes to a bright and busy ward of white walls and blue bed-curtains, it took her a moment to recall why she was here.
Time was jumbled. The ward clock read nine. Nine! Panic gripped her, until she recalled waking at six-thirty with her mouth dry, her head pounding. She’d called Fin to explain—“I’m fine, no, please don’t come to the hospital, they only kept me in as a precaution,”—then she’d had a cup of tea and fallen asleep again.
To her relief, she now felt better than expected. She began to sit up, reaching for a glass of water. Someone put the glass into her hand and she saw a visitor sitting beside her bed.
Her mouth opened in surprise at a tall, big-boned man in a thick sweater patterned with zigzags of red and green that tortured her eyes. His dark hair was shorn around a large bald pate, his large, handsome features finished by a neat beard.
It was Dr. Gregory, the psychologist whose email she’d deleted before Christmas. She’d been ignoring his emails for over a year, yet he wouldn’t take the hint.
“What are you doing here?” she said, blunt with shock.
“I work here.”
“I know. I meant…”
He gave the fatherly smile she remembered. “The registrar saw in your notes that I’d treated you in the past. You know with a head injury that amnesia can be a problem and, since you’re particularly prone to the condition, you might need to be monitored more closely. Stephanie, I was dreadfully concerned to hear you’ve had this accident.”
Stevie froze inside. A wall of denial sprang up. “There’s no need. I bumped my head, that’s all.”
“And how are you feeling?”
“Not bad at all,” she said, folding her hands on top of the sheet. She noticed that all her silver rings had been removed; she hoped they were in her bag. “It’s good of you to come, but I’m fine.”
He leaned forward, resting one elbow across his knees. “You haven’t been answering my emails.”
“No. I’ve been so busy.”
“A head injury is a worry, because we still don’t know what caused your original memory loss.”
Dr. Gregory’s kind yet probing manner, quiet voice and terrible taste in sweaters took her back ten years, to a consulting room in another wing of the hospital, where he’d tried to tease answers from a confused, introverted teenager—much to the frustration of Stevie’s uncomprehending foster mother. And she did not want to go back there.
“That was an awfully long time ago, so I’d like to forget about it, if you’ll excuse the pun.”
He’d always been supportive. Stevie had liked him, but grown to dread his endless analysis, his “assessments,” his refusal to let go of her case. Yet she could never tell him to get lost because … he was a doctor, and she was intimidated.
Now, though, she was stronger.
“I understand,” he said. “However, I still think it’s important we keep talking. You ran away from the problems before you’d fully confronted them.”
She was silent for a moment. “That’s up to me, isn’t it?”
“Yes, of course. But…”
“I sorted myself out, Dr. Gregory. I have a job I love and I’m happy; I can’t see how it helps to keep raking up the past. I’m a different person now. That’s why I didn’t answer your emails. I didn’t mean to be rude, but I’ve moved on.”
He gave his familiar, understanding sigh. “I respect that. My concern is that you are still burying things. One day they’ll resurface and burn you. All I want to say is that, if you begin to experience problems, I’m still here to help.”
“Thank you,” she said, feeling guiltily grateful. “I know we didn’t get to the bottom of my craziness, but our sessions weren’t a waste. You helped me get into art college, and that changed everything. My only real problem now is that a friend of mine’s gone missing.”
“Daniel Manifold?”
A vein in her head throbbed. “How did you know?”
Dr. Gregory looked sheepish. “I know his mother. Academic lives cross quite a bit. Actually, I saw Daniel for a few months when he was much younger—this is confidential, but I know you won’t repeat it—to assess him for possible clinical conditions.”
Stevie focused, forgetting her own problems. “I knew he’d seen a psychologist, but he didn’t tell me it was you. Was there something wrong with him?”
“‘Wrong’ is a subjective term. He was highly creative, with obsessive and manic traits towards the high end of normal. His father’s early death exacerbated that, which is understandable. The main issue seemed to be a mismatch between his personality and Professor Manifold’s view of how he should behave.”
Stevie gave a pained smile. “That’s exactly what I thought! Can you map out a definition of normal?”
“No such thing,” he acknowledged. “Never in my life have I met anyone without some kind of neurosis, idiosyncrasy or borderline personality disorder—and I’m not talking about patients. As long as we can muddle along without harming ourselves or others, we’re doing okay.”
His words lightened her heart. What a revelation, that they could talk as equals. Quietly she confessed, “I still have the drowning dreams. I even had one last night, while I was out cold. And I still see apparitions—or migraine aura, as the doctors prefer to label it—but I’m all right. Any ghosts, I just say hi and carry on with my day. I think I’m doing quite well, considering.”
He patted her wrist. “Sounds like you’re doing wonderfully. So you rest now and do as the doctors tell you. Don’t forget, I’m only a phone call away.”
Dr. Gregory left. Stevie lay back, surprised at how tired the conversation had made her. She was glad, now, that she’d seen him. To learn that Daniel had also been his patient was an intriguing coincidence.
“I see things, as if the world’s showing me hidden layers,” he’d said, the first time they met. “It’s beautiful. That’s why I wander off and stare for hours … but my mother thinks I’m mad. She’s making me see a shrink. But I just like to really look at things, you know? Does that make me nuts?”
“No, Dan,” she said softly to herself. “Maybe Frances needs counseling, not you.”
Stevie was finally discharged at midday, arriving home by one o’clock. In the taxi she pulled the bandage off her head; they’d shaved a tiny strip and put stitches in, but she arranged her hair to hide the injury. She paid the taxi driver and entered the museum to find the shop quiet. Fin was manning the counter, Ron chatting to her. Stevie began glancing around for disturbances she’d missed the previous night, telltale signs that might give the lie to her story.
“Hey, boss,” said Fin with a concerned look. “How are you? What the hell happened?”
“I’m fine. Like I said on the phone, I tripped up and banged my head.”
“You want to take more water with it, girl,” said Ron. He gave her a hug with one arm around her shoulders, which she found embarrassing. She eased herself free.
“Yes, thanks, Ron. I thought they’d gi
ve me a quick checkup and send me home. Honestly, I’d never have gone in if I’d known I’d be there all night! So sorry to call you before the crack of dawn, Fin.”
“No, don’t be daft,” said Fin, walking from behind the counter to join the hugging. “You did the right thing. Actually, Alec opened up because I had to get the kids to school. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Positive. A bit tired. Sore head. No lasting damage.”
“Well, you’d better take the rest of the day off. You needn’t think you’re working.”
Stevie thought of her empty apartment. She didn’t even have a real cat waiting; only a small leopard-like phantom that was hardly a proper pet. The thought of spending the afternoon lying down depressed her. “What else will I do?”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Fin. “Lie on the sofa eating chocolate and reading a good book? I forbid you to work!”
Stevie smiled. “Okay, well, I need a shower and fresh clothes. And some lunch.”
“It’s a start. By the way, why did you take the triptych off display?”
The question hit her like ice water. Goose bumps crawled over her skin. She couldn’t remember what she’d decided to say.
“Hello, Earth to Stevie? Delayed concussion?”
“Er, sorry, but I’d forgotten I’d done it. I—I suddenly felt weird about the artwork being on show while Daniel’s missing, so I took it upstairs. I’ll ask his mother if she wants it back. I need to see her anyway.”
Her stomach was a tight ball of guilt as she told the lie. Fin only shrugged and accepted her word, which made Stevie feel worse. “Okay. Whatever you think best. I assume you’ll want the loan of my car again?”
“Yes, that would be great—if you don’t mind?”
“No problem, as long as I get fuel money and a bottle of wine like last time?” Fin winked at her. “I was going to say, ‘Knock yourself out,’ but, er, not such a great choice of phrase. You can borrow it, but not today. Don’t even think about driving today.”
“Even I am not that daft,” Stevie retorted. The thought of a hot shower and food began to cheer her up. The jangle of the shop bell was her cue to leave. “Oh, by the way, I’m in love.”
Fin’s eyebrows rose. “Don’t tell me: gorgeous doctor!”
“Absolutely. The guy who treated me, Dr. Arulanantham—he was so nice, and incredibly cute. He’s from Sri Lanka. He’s only a bit taller than me, so I wouldn’t be able to wear high heels, but that’s okay. He’d be worth it.”
“You gave him your number, right?”
They were laughing as Stevie felt a presence behind her, saw Fin’s gaze drift over her shoulder. A soft voice said, “Hello, Stevie.” She turned, found Adam there.
For a moment she thought she might pass out again. If he’d attacked her last night, would he have the nerve to come back the next day? She had no idea. And she’d lied, so she couldn’t yell for help—could she? She felt herself dissolving, losing all sense of what was true.
She didn’t yell. Instead she looked coolly at him as if nothing had happened. From long practice, she could hide her inner turmoil. Usually.
“What brings you here?” she said, her tone casual.
“I heard what happened. I came to see how you are.”
“Heard, how?”
Fin said, “He called earlier, so I told him.”
“Oh, well, I survived, as you can see.” She glared into Adam’s eyes, trying to discern whether her suspicions were founded. She couldn’t talk plainly to him in front of anyone else, but was she safe alone with him?
He looked worried, but that was easily faked. “How are you feeling?’
“Slightly shaken up. Starving. Otherwise, good.”
“Can I take you to lunch, then?”
Stevie moved away from the counter, away from Fin’s attention. “Why?”
“I’d like to talk to you.”
She hesitated. Surely he wouldn’t attack her in broad daylight, in public? “All right,” she said. “I certainly need words with you.”
* * *
She led him along the curves of Vyse Street towards a wine bar near the handsome Chamberlain Clock. The day was dry, cold and grey. For a while Stevie was tight-lipped; she didn’t know what to say. She was slightly scared, too, but mostly puzzled, with a large dash of anger. Adam was silent. There was hardly anyone around. A couple in winter jackets and scarves were working their way from one jeweler’s window to the next, looking at engagement rings. The security man outside the diamond merchants’ looked bored and cold. She waved, and he saluted back.
“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” she said at last.
“I didn’t mean to come back, but…” Adam let the sentence hang. “Can I ask why you took the triptych away?”
She looked sideways at him. “Do you seriously expect me to believe you don’t know anything about that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Someone sneaked in last night and stole it. They hit me over the head first.”
He stopped and swung to face her. “My god, Stevie. Why didn’t you say? No one at the museum told me.”
“That’s because I didn’t tell them.”
“Why ever not?”
Her hands were cold. She pushed them into her coat sleeves. The coat, her thrift-shop find, was faux ivory suede with fake-fur trimmings, a hood and a waist-hugging belt; she’d liked it for its Russian winter fairy-tale style. “Complicated. But partly because I thought it was you. Was it you?”
“No!” His eyes grew wider. “How could you think that?”
“But who else was interested? Look, acres of jewelry in all directions. It’s fairly safe here—there’s a police station around the corner—but occasionally there’s an attempted break-in, like any inner-city area. Thieves want gold, platinum, money. They’re not going to run off with a bulky wooden panel. You tried to buy Aurata’s Promise and I said no. So you took it anyway.”
“No.” He was adamant. “I give you my word I did not do this, Stevie. Why would I come back to see you, if I had?”
“I don’t know! To make yourself appear less guilty?”
As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. She didn’t want to believe Adam was capable of attacking her, then brazenly returning to pretend innocence. Yet she wasn’t sure. That gnawed at her.
She had an idea. “How’s your hand?” she said.
He looked puzzled. Before he could respond, she seized both his hands and inspected them. They were beautifully shaped, with long fingers—naturally, since he was so damned perfect—and they felt warm in her cold grasp. No teeth marks, no bruises.
Embarrassed, she let go. He inspected his hands for himself, front and back. “Why would there be anything…”
“Because I bit you. Correction, I bit whoever attacked me. Which apparently wasn’t you.”
“No, of course it wasn’t.” He looked horrified. His reaction appeared so genuine that she finally believed he wasn’t acting.
“But who would take the panel, and nothing else?”
“Rufus,” Adam said gravely. “Stevie, I’m so, so sorry.”
* * *
The wine bar was a cavernous space with a partly glazed ceiling, ferns cascading down red-painted iron pillars. There were wooden floors, tables and chairs made from reclaimed materials. It had once been a factory, now renovated to a trendy mix of old and new. Stevie chose a table in a quiet corner, and let Adam go to the bar to order food and drinks. He came back with two tall glasses of fruit juice; she used hers to wash down painkillers.
Seeing her swallow the pills, he repeated, “I’m sorry.” His complexion was deathly pale.
“If you didn’t whack me, stop apologizing.”
“But I’ve brought this trouble to you.”
“Or Danny has, by sending me the wretched thing in the first place.”
“He wouldn’t deliberately endanger you, would he?”
“Not in a million years,” she said. “N
ot the Danny I knew, anyway. Of course, he probably wasn’t in his right mind when he sent it.”
A waiter came with cutlery, napkins and a bowl of black and green olives. She thanked him, and began to devour the olives, gasping at the delicious burst of salt and oil on her tongue. “These are amazing. Try one. God, I hope they’re quick with the sandwiches. I’m famished. Oh, and you have to call an ambulance if I drop unconscious or start acting weird.” She licked the juice off her fingers. “This isn’t me being weird, by the way. This is normal me.”
“Stevie.” He fixed his gaze steadily on her. She was fascinated by the way light and shade brought out different colors in his eyes. Now his irises were deep silver-grey, laced with leaf-green. “You seem…”
“What?”
“To be recovering quickly.”
“I know. I’m supposed to take it easy, and I will, but I feel fine. Even the bad head’s bearable.”
“And that’s characteristic of…”
“Being minutes from dropping dead?”
“I wasn’t going to say that.” He broke the gaze. “Stevie, are you sure you don’t know Rufus already?” He sat back, continuing the discussion with himself. “But if you did, you wouldn’t admit it. I might have walked into a trap; I gave you a name that he’d recognize. But if you knew him, he wouldn’t need to steal the painting.”
She sipped her drink. “I’m going to call the paramedics for you in a moment, Adam. I swear I don’t know anyone who could conceivably be Rufus. You’re not making sense.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“What can I say? I didn’t fake being attacked. I’m not in league with Rufus. But I still have absolutely no idea who you are. How about telling me your real name?”
“Mist,” he said softly.
“Missed what?”
“No, it’s my name. M-i-s-t. Mistangamesh.”
“Sounds … I don’t know. Greek?”
“No. It’s an old family name. My true name.”
A shiver went through her. She remembered the fairy-tale premise, that to learn someone’s true name was to gain power over them. Not that she believed in magic, but all the same, to offer a true name meant something. Willingness to be vulnerable?
Grail of the Summer Stars (Aetherial Tales) Page 14
