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with white walls and polished wooden floors. A squat black stove sat in one corner, sending waves of welcoming warmth into the room. Three small, wooden cradles lay against one wall. Beneath a bank of multi-paned windows were four narrow beds. Beside each bed was a four-legged table, heaped with white crockery pitchers and cups and instruments.

Elliot lay in one of the beds, his face as white as the sheet tucked lovingly beneath his chin.

"Oh, Elliot . . ." She brought a cold, shaking hand to her mouth and tried not to cry. But all she could think about was the flower he'd brought her.

A stoop-shouldered old man with snow white hair and round spectacles pushed away from his desk and walked toward her. "h.e.l.lo, Sister Agnes. You have permission to speak to Brother Elliot?"

"Yes." The word was small, broken.

"Go ahead, then."

Selena forced her wobbly legs to move. At his bedside, she pulled out a chair and sat down. "Elliot, can you hear me?"

The doctor shuffled over to the bed and stood on the opposite side. "He can't hear anything, Sister. He's been sleeping on and off for almost twenty-eight hours. They brung him to me right away, but there wasn't nothing I could do except dig out the bullet. There's already a hint of inflammation. He's in G.o.d's hands now."

"G.o.d's hands." She repeated the words dully, leaning over Elliot. He lay as still as she imagined death must be, his breathing shallow and labored.

"I'm gonna go get me some b.u.t.termilk. Would you like some?"

"No."

The doctor stood by her for a minute, then turned and shuffled away.

She stared down at Elliot, knowing he could hear her in there. Praying he could. She began talking to him in a quiet, rea.s.suring voice. She had no idea what the 333.

words meant, or if they meant anything at all. She just talked.

Finally he stirred.

She scooted forward, grabbed his big, scarred hand, and pressed it to her cold, wet cheek. "Elliot?"

His eyes fluttered open, his breath released in a ragged sigh. "Agnes."

Her relief was so sharp, so poignant, that she almost cried out. She leaned toward him, tenderly brushed the messy hair from his face, and stared into his watery, bloodshot eyes.

And saw love.

He tried to smile. "Heard Doc talking. Says I'm dying."

"I will not let you die."

Very slowly, he reached out with his good hand and touched her cheek, a feathery, gentle touch that was over too quickly. "I should have left you with him." He sighed, his hand fell back to the bed.

"Do not speak of the past, Elliot. Think of the future. You must get well."

"I don't think I want to get better, Agnes." A phlegmy cough rattled his chest. At the movement, he grimaced in pain. "If I die, go to Lethe House. Ten miles past Craigdarroch Point. Anyone . . ." He coughed again. "Anyone in Alabaster will know the way."

"Elliot-"

He squeezed her hand hard and drilled her with a pleading look. "Promise me."

She didn't know what to do, what to say. "I promise."

He breathed another heavy sigh and relaxed. "Good."

She edged off the chair and carefully sat on the side of the bed. Trying to smile, she gazed down at him, touched his scarred, puckered flesh and felt the heat from his fever. She felt sick at the thought of losing him. This big, loving man with the sad, sad eyes, who'd

never done anything but love her. "I will not leave you, Elliot."

His eyes slid shut, his breathing melted into a slow, rhythmic tide. "I love you, Agnes," he whispered.

"Elliot?" She leaned closer, feeling the first cold brush of fear. Was this death? A quiet lapse into a restful sleep. Had the words released him? "Elliot?"

She felt a hand cup around her shoulder and squeeze rea.s.suringly. "He woke up?" the doctor asked.

Selena turned to him. "Is he . .."

The doctor touched Elliot's wrist, then shook his head. "Not yet. See? His chest is still moving. He's breathing."

Selena's shoulders sagged with relief. "Thank G.o.d."

"But it won't be long now. A couple of days, maybe, before the infection kills him." He stared down at Elliot, wincing at the sight of the scar. "Maybe it's a blessing. Brother Elliot has been in pain all of his life."

"A blessing?" Selena repeated the words. At first she was incredulous, and then, slowly, she became angry. "A blessing?"

The doctor shrugged. "Children in the world used to run from him, screaming. Did he tell you that? Even here there were people who crossed the road to be away from him. As if that d.a.m.ned scar was the mark of the devil. Why, once I saw-"

"Can I take him to a worldly doctor?"

The doctor frowned. "Can you take him? What do you mean?"

"I mean the rules. Will Elliot still go to Heaven if I take him to a worldly doctor?"

A quick smile quirked the doctor's mouth. "We call in worldly doctors all the time, but-"

Selena jerked to her feet and spun around. "I shall be back in forty minutes with a wagon. Make him ready to move."

"But, Sister Agnes-"

She smiled. For the first time, she felt a flash of hope

335 for Elliot. She knew there was one man who might be able to save her husband. "Perhaps I am G.o.d's hands, Doctor. Make him ready." Ian was in the parlor, sipping coffee, reading Henry Cunningham's latest treatise on the treatment of female mental disorders. Johann and Andrew were on the settee, sharing pages of last week's New York Times. The last time Ian had seen Maeve, she was spouting Shakespeare and reprimanding her stuffed owl for cussing. The now familiar sound of hammering was a dull, echoing reminder that the asylum's addition was nearly complete. Maeve flitted across the room, one arm bent dramatically across her chin. 'To thine own shelf be true." She paused suddenly and c.o.c.ked her head. "Someone's coming." Johann looked up. "I believe Laertes has the next line." Maeve's arm fell to her side. "No. Someone is really here." She traipsed out to the entryway, her diaphanous cape trailing behind her, and peered through the window beside the front door. "Oh, my." "Kind of late for a delivery," Ian said without looking up from his papers. "Ian," Maeve said softly. "It's Selena." Ian felt a rush of hot hope, even went so far as to lean forward in his seat before he realized the truth. Maeve had "seen" Selena a dozen times in the last few months. Slowly he resettled himself in the chair. "That's nice, Mother." Andrew leapt to his feet and raced to the door, pushing Maeve aside so that he could see out the mullioned window. "Oh, my gosh." The boy's voice, whispery and filled with awe, brought Ian to his feet in a rush. He looked at the two people, pressed side by side at the little window, their noses

pushed against the gla.s.s, and felt a stirring of honest hope. He looked at Johann.

Johann put down the newspaper and rose. "Could it be?"

Ian was afraid to believe it. Even more afraid not to. He walked to the door, and with each step, his unreasonable hope grew. With a shaking hand, he reached for the cold bra.s.s k.n.o.b and turned it, sweeping the door open wide.

The winter night was shadowy and dark. Moonlight reflected off the layer of new frost that clung stubbornly to the blackened, dying gra.s.s. A wagon was parked in the drive. Great plumes of breath shot from the horse's nostrils.

A wraithlike shadow sat on the wagon's front seat. It turned, spoke to the driver in a quiet, subdued voice. "They will help me carry him in. Thank you."

Her voice, so familiar, washed over him. "Selena?" he whispered, his knees weakening. The loneliness left him in a rush. She was home. Sweet Jesus, she was home.

She turned to him then, and in the pale moonlight he saw her face, cloaked as it was by a huge, black cape. "Ian." That was all she said, nothing more, just a whisper that was his name.

Maeve screamed, "Selena's home!"

Edith and the queen and Lara rushed down the stairs, shouting, arms waving, skirts flapping. All four women and Andrew hurtled down the stairs, tugged Selena down from her perch on the wagon and enfolded her in a huge, laughing hug. Everyone was talking at once.

Ian stared out, feeling oddly anxious. Something was wrong. She'd said his name, but not the words, not the phrase he ached to hear from her lips. And why wasn't she beside him, clinging to him, smothering him with her sweet kisses?

Johann came up beside Ian, stood beside him in the open doorway. "You haven't moved," he said.

337 Ian couldn't answer past the lump in his throat. He felt achingly, obviously, vulnerable. Did she still love him? The question came out of nowhere, sharp and painful. In all this time, all these months, he'd imagined her pining away for him, as lonely and depressed as he was. But maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe this Elliot truly had been her love for twenty-two years, and her time with Ian was just a pleasant interlude. ... "Don't torture yourself, Ian," Johann said, "though I know how much you enjoy it." He turned to his friend. "What if-" Johann dismissed the fear with a wave of his hand. "What ifs are for writers and children." Finally the jabbering crowd grew quiet. One by one, the inmates peeled away from their G.o.ddess and filtered back toward the house, until only Selena stood at the wagon. Ian stood there, waiting, his heart hammering, his throat painfully dry. She stood stiffly, her hands clasped nervously at her waist, her voluminous cape billowing gently around her ankles. Her face was a pale-too pale-oval amidst the darkness of the hood, her eyes wide and mysterious. He leaned infinitesimally forward. Now she'd speak, now she'd say the words he needed so desperately to hear. I've come home, Ian. She moved toward him, her booted feet crunching on the stone path. At the base of the steps, she stopped, and he thought-crazily-that she was afraid to come any closer. "My husband," she said softly. He nodded. Yes. Tell me you've left him. She pointed weakly back at the wagon. "My husband is wounded. He needs your help, Ian." He froze. Everything about the moment-the hope, the dreams-everything shattered at her simple words. She blinked up at him, unsmiling, her hands coiled at her waist. She knew how she was hurting him. d.a.m.n 338.

her, she knew what he needed right now, and she said nothing. Did nothing.

The minute drew out, breathless and poignant, and no one moved or spoke. Then Andrew directed the driver to start unloading Elliot. Johann raced down to help, but Ian couldn't move. He just stood there, his insides broken, staring at Selena.

There weren't even tears in her eyes. She, who cried when a flower died, was dry-eyed now.

He forced his gaze away from her. It hurt too much to look at her and he turned his attention to the wagon. As if released, Selena hurried to help Johann and Andrew. The three of them carried Elliot on a stretcher up the steps.

Ian stepped to the side. 'Take him to the empty bedroom on the second floor."

The crowd funneled up the stairway and dispersed at the top, turning to the left and disappearing. All that was left of her was a trace of scent, completely foreign. Lavender, he realized dully. When had she begun to smell like lavender?

Ian remained at the bottom of the stairs, unmoving, unbreathing, until he was alone and the stairwell was dark and empty once again. He wondered for a second if he'd dreamed it, if he'd risen from his chair and looked outside and really seen nothing at all except the frost on the lawn and the pale scythe of the moon.

She couldn't be here, couldn't have looked him in the eye and not cried and said quietly, "My husband is wounded." As if nothing else mattered, just her husband.

"Ian," Maeve yelled from the top of the stairs. "Get up here."

Woodenly he began to move. He went to the study and retrieved his medical bag, then slowly climbed the stairs.

The bedroom was wreathed in darkness and filled with people. "Everyone out," he said in a dull voice.

"Only Andrew and Johann and ... Selena can stay."

339.

No one argued. Maeve shepherded the others outside of the room and shut the door behind them.

Andrew busily set about lighting the lamps. Within moments, the room was thick with haze and smelled of smoke. Wavering golden light swept the darkness into cobwebby corners.

Ian walked over to the bed, where already Elliot lay atop the sheets and blankets. His half-scarred face was the same color as the grayed linen pillowcase beneath his head. He was bare-chested, and Ian noticed that the same burn that marred his face and hand had eaten down his side as well. Bandages wrapped his shoulder and part of his chest; the fabric was stained brown with blood.

"What happened?" he asked. "He was shot." "Bullet still in there?" "No. The doctor said he dug it out."

Ian nodded, but didn't look at her. He didn't dare. Not yet, not while the pain was so fresh and raw.

"Idiot doctor probably used his fingers to dig out the bullet- after gardening, no doubt. Take off the bandages."

Andrew scurried to the bedside and gently peeled the stiff bandages away from Elliot's body as Ian examined the injury. The ragged wound was ringed by flesh that was already an angry red, and a greenish pus pooled in the opening. "It's infected," he said quietly.

Selena came up beside him. He felt her presence, and it took all his strength not to turn to her and take her in his arms. Instead he stood there, not looking at her, looking down at the man who'd taken everything from Ian, taken his very soul.

"Ian." She said his name in that quiet, throaty voice of hers-G.o.d, how he'd missed that voice.

He waited for the softness of her touch, the gentle pressure of her fingers on his arm. But she made no move to touch him. "He is a good man, Ian. He does not deserve to die."

340.

"Doesn't he?" Ian heard the ugly bitterness in his voice and he cursed himself for it. But he couldn't stop it.

"Can you save him?"

I don't want to. Again, so ugly, but he couldn't help himself. He wanted to let Elliot die. Now, tonight.

Just move back and do nothing and let the old man die.

Elliot's death was Ian's only chance for a life, and he knew it, had known it the second he looked in Selena's eyes. Her decision hadn't changed. If Ian saved Elliot's life, Selena would leave Ian. Again.

"Ian?" she prompted.

She put a wealth of meaning in that one little word; he felt her expectation, her trust, like a weight against his lungs.

He swallowed hard, wishing-oh, Christ, wishing a million things. All pointless, all impossible. Wishing Elliot had died on the way, that he'd been shot in the head, that there was no way to save him. But mostly he wished he'd never promised Selena to be honorable.