"Come along, Selena, hurry. We need to speak to Johann."

They hastened down the steep stairway and rushed through the darkened foyer. At the door, Andrew paused. He jerked his outstretched hand back, plunged it in his pocket, as if the doork.n.o.b frightened him.

Selena reached past him and pulled the door open. Cool air swept into the house, brought with it a swirl of bright green leaves.

She stopped, awed by the feel of the breeze against her face, the smell of it. Her skirt fluttered against her ankles, hair whispered against her forehead.

The night-stained lawn pushed away from her, melted into the shadowy stand of trees. Bloodred streamers of dawn wafted across the distant horizon, a blurry cascade of fire in the darkness.

Johann slammed the coach door shut and walked up the path, his bootheels making a marvelous crunching sound with every step. "Better hurry back inside, Andrew. It'll be morning soon."

Andrew c.o.c.ked his head toward Selena. His eyes bulged in silent communication.

"I see. You've found a companion at last" Johann laughed at his own wit. "Sort of brings Mary Sh.e.l.ley to mind, don't you think?"

"It's not what you think, Johann," Andrew said in a breathless voice.

Johann paused, c.o.c.ked his hip, and stared at Selena. His gaze started at her small, bare toes sticking out from beneath her gown, traveling up her body slowly to the place where her bodice was ripped.

Selena felt an odd heat begin in her stomach.

Johann loosed a slow smile. One eyebrow c.o.c.ked upward. "Her face is much improved, Andrew. And she looks to have an impressive set of t.i.ts."

Selena didn't understand everything he said, but she knew he'd said something about her face. No doubt he'd noticed how much better she looked.

"Shh," Andrew hissed. "She can understand you." Johann languidly lifted one arm and started straightening the lace at his sleeve. "Of course she does, Andrew, and I'm King George."

Selena immediately fell into a curtsy. Straightening slowly, she extended her right arm, wrist dipped, in greeting. She lowered her lashes in deference, as she'd been taught. "Your Highness."

Johann froze. The color faded from his cheeks and he shot a quick look at Andrew. "Holy s.h.i.t."

Selena frowned. That wasn't the correct response. She must have done something incorrectly. She curtsied again and extended her arm. "Greetings, Your Highness."

Johann took her hand and kissed it. "Greetings, G.o.ddess," he said softly, looking at her over the ridge of her fingers. "Can you say something to me?"

Something about the way he looked at her made Selena uncomfortable. Her cheeks felt hot. "She can read," Andrew remarked. "She whatT Johann turned and went back to the carriage, reaching inside.

Pulling a book out, he opened it to a random page. "Read this, G.o.ddess."

Selena focused on the words he'd pointed to, forcing herself to breathe deeply. " 'Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay. He came. Lost angel of ...' " She frowned, unable to read the last word. " 'Par ...' "

"Paradise," Johann said quietly. She looked up and saw the genuine smile on Johann's gaunt face.

"Paradise," she repeated.

"Sweet Jesus," he murmured, touching her chin, tilting her face up. "Our esteemed leader was wrong."

Selena ignored the confusing jumble of his words. "You help me learn?"

"Of course I will, G.o.ddess. Andrew and I shall teach you all the words you've forgotten." He turned to Andrew. "It should be quite a moment when Ian returns." Selena's heartbeat sped up. "Ian?"

145 Johann turned back to her, a sad, understanding look in his eyes. "He's gone, G.o.ddess. I don't know when he'll return." Selena understood gone. When you pinched the can-dlewick, the fire changed into smoke and was gone. She looked up at Johann, tried to force the words out. "Here is home." Very slowly, Johann smiled. "Yes, this is home for Ian. And sooner or later, people always come home. Even idiots like Dr. Carrick." One month to the day after he'd left, Ian returned. He stood outside the closed wrought-iron gates of Lethe House, staring through the intricately formed black bars, listening to the fading sounds of his rented carriage as it disappeared back down the road. Night curled around him, comforting in its anonymity; he wished fleetingly that he hadn't wired ahead with notice of his return. Overhead, the moon was a bright, pearlescent plate wreathed in glowing gray clouds. Wind whispered through the pine needles, brushed the hair at the back of his neck. He drew his cloak tighter around his body. It was an instinctive move. Though he knew it was cold out, bitingly cold in this midnight hour, he couldn't really feel it. He felt detached from his body, his feelings as removed as the stars hidden behind the hazy veil, as distant as tomorrow's pale sunlight. With each pa.s.sing day in New York, he'd felt himself sinking deeper into a darkness from which there was no escape. He'd thought to find peace in the city, some respite from the guilt and desperation he'd felt in Alabaster. And for the first few days, things had been quiet enough. The staff had waited on him hand and foot, careful never to touch or speak to their infamous employer; no one said a word when he staggered through the house at night, blind drunk.

146 But somehow, word of his arrival had leaked out, bits and pieces of gossip sliding through the sewer system, tinkling in gla.s.ses of expensive champagne. The gawk-ers had been the first to come, hovering outside his front door, waiting breathlessly for a sighting of the notorious doctor. Next had come his fellow physicians, wanting advice from their peerless peer; all the while watching him from beneath hooded eyelids, smiling when he refused to shake their hands. Surprisingly, he'd been less upset by them than before. He could handle the sickly curious. It was the others, the last to arrive, who had sent him scurrying back to the safety of Lethe House like the night crawler he'd become. They invariably came dressed in black, their heads down, clutching a photograph, a bit of lace, an old daguerreotype. He knew the moment one of them arrived, could see the stark ravages of fear and despair in their eyes. The desperate. Help us, Dr. Carrick . . . we 've lost our precious daughter.... My baby boy is suffering from a strange illness; touch him, Dr. Carrick, and tell me if he will live. ... I'm dying, Dr. Carrick. Use your gift and save me. Save me ... save me ... save me .. . Their words were always the same, always futile, hopeless pleas that filled him with shame and horror and disgust. He'd tried to run from it, but there was no relief, either inside the house or out. They reached out for him, clawed at him every time he left the house, fell to their knees when he pa.s.sed them on the street. The soft aftermath of their sobs followed him wherever he went. Liquor had only made things worse. With every swallow of fire, he'd become drowsier and more morose. Images of Selena besieged him, hovered at his bedside like a mournful ghost, taunting, teasing, beckoning. At first the images of Elizabeth had been ever-present, a 147 weight on his shoulder that kept him reaching for the bottle, but as time went on, he had more and more trouble bringing forth the pictures. Instead, he imagined Selena. Not as she was, of course, but as he wanted her to be. Beautiful, normal, talking to him in a soft, husky voice that formed real sentences and spoke about real things. For days, before the pathetic entourage began arriving, he sat in his study, steeped in the familiar bosom of scotch, trying to eradicate all thoughts of her. But the more he pushed her away, the more his obsession rooted itself in his soul. As always, he was incapable of doing anything halfway. Instead of hoping in a quiet, scientific fashion that she would survive, he'd imbued her with all his hopes and dreams and prayers. He'd thought she could somehow redeem him. Such a fool. He'd known better. Deep inside himself, beneath the sick obsession, he'd known the truth from the beginning. There was no hope for Selena. Not one of the books he'd read promised even a ray of promise for a recovery. She was brain-damaged, and she always would be. He stood there, swaying softly in the cold night air. Ahead, the house stood in the midst of the shadowy yard, alone and indomitable and in need of repair. Gla.s.s windows blinked in the inconsequential light, the white trim appeared dull and gray. There were no lights on, and he'd expected none, and yet he knew that someone was awake in there, someone was watching him. He searched the windows, his gaze moving from one barred square to the next, trying to make out a shadow within a shadow, a whisper of movement when all else was motionless and still. He's home. The thought slammed into his head. He winced and staggered back at the force of the sudden knowledge. He should have known better than to return on the night of a full moon.

148.

Ian forced himself to walk down the path slowly, then he went up the creaking steps and into the darkened foyer.

"Come on out. I know you're here," he whispered into the still, black room.

No one answered.

He moved into the study and whipped off his cloak, tossing it over a chair. Lighting a lamp, he poured himself a stiff drink and headed up the stairs.

His mother stood on the landing, her unbound hair splayed out across her shoulders, her hands at her waist, her fingers furiously working the ribbon.

His breath released in a tired sigh. "Mother, go back to bed."

"Were you going to see Selena?"

"No."

"Many things have changed in your absence."

He sighed, saying nothing.

Maeve stepped toward him. He saw her fear in tiny, familiar movements-the way her fingers tightened around the strip of satin, the way she bit down on her lower lip. It sickened and shamed him as it always did-the proof that his own mother feared him.

She stopped directly in front of him and looked up. He didn't need to read her mind to know her thoughts. He needed only to look into her anxious eyes. She was afraid he'd laugh at her and turn away before she spoke. But still she was here, standing in front of him, blocking his path.

It was unusual, her sudden temerity, and it intrigued him. He leaned against the cold wall and crossed his arms, waiting.

"W-We've had a ... meeting," she said in a breathy rush.

"We?"

"The residents of the house." "Oh, really? Busting out, are you?" "We've been helping Selena."

149.

He stiffened, pulled infinitesimally away from the wall. "Helping her do what?"

Nervously Maeve wet her lips. Some emotion that looked like pride filled her eyes. She squared her shoulders. "I taught her to eat like a lady. The queen taught her to curtsy."

A horrifying image of Selena dropping into a mechanical, jerking curtsy flashed through Ian's mind. He closed his eyes and tried to banish it. "How nice. Good night, Mother." He started to turn away.

"I didn't give you permission to leave."

The authority in her voice caught Ian off guard. Surprised, he turned back to her. "Excuse me?"

"No, I do not." She licked her lips again and blinked up at him. He could see how much that order had cost her, how it frightened her to say it.

Something was out of the ordinary. She stood tall and straight, her flyaway hair a halo around her pale, oval face. Hazel eyes stared up at him, clear and lucid.

He felt a spark of pride at her composure. "What is it, Mother?"

"Selena is not like the rest of us, Ian."

"No, Mother. You're crazy. She's brain-damaged."

"No. She's almost normal."

Almost. The simple words caused a pain deep in his chest. He thought fleetingly of Elizabeth, hunched over in her chair by the window, watching a world she was no longer a part of. No doubt Maeve would think that Elizabeth was "almost normal" as well. "Because she can eat and curtsy? What was I thinking?

No doubt she's ready to attend the opera."

"I want your word that you will teach her about the world."

"Fine."

"Tomorrow."

He frowned. "Sooner or later-"

'Tomorrow."

"Fine, Mother. I'll sit at her bedside and wipe the

150.

drool from her mouth and tell her about this G.o.dforsaken world we live in. Maybe she'll even understand something after I say h.e.l.lo."

Maeve seemed unable to stop a quick smile. "We shall see who learns what"

Ian rolled his eyes. "Good night."

"Good night, Ian. Selena and I shall meet you on the beach tomorrow morning."

"Of course you will, Mother. No doubt you'll be a.n.a.lyzing Plato."

He saw her reaction, knew instantly that he'd hurt her. He wished he could take the bitterness in his voice back, wished he'd simply walked away without uttering that last, telling sentence.

She expected something of him tonight, something that hadn't been a part of their relationship in years, in a lifetime. Honesty, perhaps. Understanding. He didn't know. But he could see now, in her sad, sad eyes, that he had failed her. Again.

"Oh, Ian ..." She moved toward him, raising a pale, slim hand. At the last moment, when she was so close that he could see the sheen of tears in her eyes, and the network of lines around her mouth, she stopped. Her hand fell to her side again.

Strangely, he found himself missing the touch that had never been. "What is it, Mother?"

She stared up at him, unblinking, her face impossibly pale in the darkness. "I would change it all if I could." Ian felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach. His breath released in a harsh sigh. He gazed down at her, trying to find the right words. But there were none, and both of them knew it. "I ... know you're sorry...."

Tears glittered in her eyes. "But you don't care." Before he could respond, Maeve ducked her head and scurried away from him. She slipped back into her bedroom and shut the door behind her.

Ian leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. Why couldn't he reach out to his mother? Why couldn't 151.

he be human around her instead of always acting like such an angry, petulant child?

With a sigh, he drew back.

She wanted what she'd always wanted from him- absolution; he was unable to truly forgive her. He wished he were different, wished he could smile and shrug and tell her it didn't matter.

But it would be a lie, more hurtful to both of them than a flat truth could ever be.

"I care, Mother," he said softly, his voice lost in the dark shadows of the hallway. Words felt so deeply, he couldn't say them any louder, couldn't say them to her face. He cared. He'd always cared.

He just didn't know what difference it made.

Chapter Thirteen.

The next morning, Ian walked down the path to the beach. The sound of feminine laughter filtered through the trees, intruding on the shadowy silence. For a split second, Ian's step faltered.

The alien sound came again, throaty and mesmerizing, drawing Ian through the trees to the sh.o.r.eline. He paused in the shadow of the forest and gazed out to the beach, seeking the source of the laughter.

Maeve and Lara were directly in front of him, sitting on a high, lichen-covered granite ledge. Beside them stood a rickety easel, complete with multicolored canvas and a haphazardly stationed row of paint jars.

A big paintbrush, its black tip stained a bright sunrise yellow, lay on the rock beside it, apparently forgotten. The painting was a whimsical rendering of the beach, with scarlet rocks and radiant blue waves and a rainbow of a morning sky above it all.

Maeve sat on the craggy lip of rock, her hands in her lap, her hair loose and flowing about her shoulders.

She saw him instantly, and when she did, a small, mysterious smile curved her lips. Her gaze moved away from him, turned pointedly to the tide pools below.