She frowned, trying to come up with the word, but the effort was paralyzingly difficult. The thought drifted away from her, left her with no more than a niggling sense that something was wrong. And then even that was gone.

"Howare youtoday ... G.o.ddess?" A low, rumbling ba.s.s noise from somewhere in the darkness.

She tried to open her eyes. She felt them begin to open, slowly, like the reluctant movement of a door that had been rusted shut for ages.

She saw something ... circle ... out of focus. No, not a circle ... round. Round, yes. Face. A face fringed by pale golden light. A halo. Angel.

"Wellh.e.l.lothere." It was the same voice, soft and caressing and intimate. She realized now that she recognized it, that she'd heard it before today. It was the voice that had always been with her in the great, cold darkness, the voice beckoning for her to fightselena. She didn't know what it meant, what he wanted of her, but it was comforting somehow. "Areyoucold?"

Gibberish. Her head started to ache. The raw fire in her throat came back. "... knowwho ... youare?"

She could feel his expectation, his need, and she wanted to do what he wanted, but she didn't understand. Frustration welled up inside her.

She knew he was talking to her. She should be able to speak back to him, but she couldn't remember any of the words, or how to form them, or what to say.

She started to utter a low, growling sound of irritation, but the noise aborted itself, cut off by the harsh, unrelenting fire in her throat. "Wouldyoulikesome ... water?" Water. The word surprised her. She understood it.

39.

Yes, water. She had need of it in her throat. How did she tell him so?

The angel leaned closer. He pulled the thing from her throat. The pain was exquisite. She trembled, whimpered.

Then the thing was gone, and the pain in her throat lessened.

"Hereyougo." Something warm and strong curled around her neck, brought her slowly upward. At the movement, her head started pounding. Hammering pain. She made a small, moaning sound and almost pa.s.sed back into the darkness.

"Shhhh .. . s'okay . . ."

The angel's face swam before her eyes, wavery and out of focus still. Something cool and smooth touched her mouth. Water beaded on her lips. She could smell it, remember it. Her mouth watered, she became dizzy with the need to taste it, but she couldn't remember what to do.

A hot ache pulsed behind her eyes, left a film of stinging moisture.

"Don'tcry. . . . s'okay . .. here." He pressed the cool surface-gla.s.s!-between her lips. His touch was soft and sure and calmed her immediately. The strange moisture in her eyes dried. The clear vessel tilted, sent a tepid flood of water into her mouth.

She sputtered, coughed, then accidentally . ..

Swallowed. That was it. That's what she'd been supposed to do. She drank greedily, feeling the warm, slick water slide down her throat. Finally, exhausted, she sank back into the softness and closed her eyes.

The familiar darkness curled around her, and for a second, she was afraid. Afraid she would never awaken again, never see her angel's face again, never hear his gentle voice. Her heart beat faster.

He talked to her. The low, soothing strains of his voice wrapped around her, comforted her immediately.

Very slowly, she opened her eyes again.

40 This time she saw him in complete focus, and he was so handsome that for a second she couldn't breathe. His hair looked like a gold coin glinting in the sunlight, and his eyes, they were the color of ... shoe? leaf? She didn't know, couldn't remember the word to describe his eyes, but she knew it didn't matter. She was looking at an angel, fallen from the heavens. Or G.o.d Himself. Yes, she thought sleepily. She'd been saved by G.o.d Himself. It was her last, pleasant thought as she slipped back into the darkness. She had opened her eyes. Even now, hours later, Ian clung to that glorious heartbeat of time, living and reliving it, shaping and reshaping it in his mind until it was bigger, better. She hadn't said anything, but that meant nothing. Less than nothing. She had opened her eyes. It was a miracle. Grinning, he raced down the overgrown granite path from the house and surged into the dark night Overhead, the moon was a brilliant opalescent ball, wreathed in a glowing halo of light. It was silent except for the methodic crunching of his heels on the timeworn stone. The sea was a distant thrum of waves on rock. He pushed his hands deeper in his pockets and laughed aloud. Christ, he felt good. Over and over, he saw the image of Selena when she'd finally wakened. Finally, he'd seen the dark, mysterious brown of her eyes. Just thinking about it sent exhilaration, blistering and liquid, coursing through his blood. He realized in that instant that he hadn't believed she'd wake up, not really. He thought she'd lie there in that too narrow bed and simply fade away. For years, he'd pictured the Almighty as a cruel joke-ster, sitting on His gilded throne, playing with humans 41 as if they were meaningless pieces on a great chessboard. That image, he could understand, could hate with equanimity; it allowed him to sit in the dark and nurse his animosity, allowed him to hide his curse from himself and an uncaring world. But no more. G.o.d had finally answered one of Ian's prayers. He turned in to his mother's sanctuary, the small garden she tended so zealously. Elegant wrought-iron fencing closed him in, created a small envelope in the darkness that was subtler, soothing. Every flower his mother planted was white, designed to catch the light of the moon. A great arching gazebo, grayed by time, stood in the center of the garden, its posts swaddled in thick brown wisteria vines. Inside the gazebo sat a forlorn granite bench, its lion's-claw feet set amidst a blanket of silvery new narcissus blossoms. He closed the gate behind him and went to the bench, taking a seat on the cold, hard stone. Closing his eyes, he let the moonlight wash his face. Usually he stayed away from the yard when the moon was full; it somehow increased his psychic powers. Sometimes, on nights like tonight, he could "read" people's thoughts from far away, could know things about them by simply bringing their faces to his mind. But tonight he didn't care. He felt too good, too hopeful, to be afraid of anything-including his curse. I can heal her, save her. Touch her. Mesmerizing possibilities drifted through his mind, images beckoned and challenged him. A dream took shape, bursting full force in his mind. She would be his greatest challenge yet. He would set the medical world on its ear with his brilliance. When he was finished with her, she'd be as healthy as she'd ever been, and doctors would come from miles around to see her, touch her, study her. And they would know that Ian Carrick was still the best physician in the world.

He closed his eyes and imagined his glory in full, vibrant color. He saw the amphitheater at Harvard full of his colleagues, sitting forward on their seats, watching with greedy eyes as he led Selena onstage. His miraculous creation, smiling, walking, talking, after a vicious brain injury. He could almost hear the thunderous applause, almost see the standing ovation.

Soon, he thought. Wake up tomorrow and we can begin---- Ah, he'd give his soul to see her wake up again, smiling and full of life. To hear the sound of her voice and the content of her thoughts.

He looked up at the sky and laughed heartily. Is that what You want? My soul?

"Fine," he said softly, "take it." Useless, unnecessary thing anyway.

What did he need with a soul, when the world lay open to him again, glittering, forgiving, accepting?

His for the asking.

Chapter Four.

She felt herself floating toward the light. It beckoned and drew her forward. Very slowly, she opened her eyes. The light hurt. She blinked hard and tried to see the world around her, but everything was gray and dismal and hazy. Blurry and out of focus. Nothing familiar.

"OhmyG.o.d ... get doctorcarrick."

People swarmed around her, their voices a great cacophony of frightening sound. She shrank into the comforting familiarity of the bed, clutching the lacy hem of the quilt.

The blurry strangers moved closer, so close that she could hear the m.u.f.fled pattern of their breathing.

Heels clicked on the floor, a knee banged the bed frame. They stared down at her, making noises, their mouths opening and closing, their fingers pointing down at her. Meaningless noise. Gibberish. She closed her eyes and tried to find the darkness again, but this time it was deep, deep inside her. And the light felt so good on her skin.

"Isshe stillawake?"

"He'shere." There was a burst of sound, a shuffling movement of the small crowd.

She writhed fitfully, afraid and hurting. Everywhere, pain. Her throat was on fire, and her head pounded.

She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing they would be quiet, wishing they would leave her alone, wishing- "Wellh.e.l.lothere Selena. You'reback." 43

44.

45 L A great, soothing sense of calm moved through her at the sound of that voice. The tension in her taut body eased, her fingers unfurled slowly, shaking from the effort it had taken to keep them clenched. G.o.d. The angel who'd saved her. She opened her eyes slowly. This time she could almost focus. The people were staring at her with worried looks on their faces, but they were farther back now, giving her room to breathe. Strangers, she thought. Strangers . . . G.o.d was in the center of them all. He moved toward her, his breathlessly handsome face cast in an easy, rea.s.suring smile. Very gently, he sat beside her on the bed. She felt the mattress dip heavily beneath his weight, heard the planks beneath it groan quietly. "You gaveus quite ascare." She didn't understand the sounds he was making, but the tone of his voice, so soft and caring and familiar, made her shiver in response. She felt an overwhelming surge of emotion for this golden man, this G.o.d who'd talked her through the darkness and touched her with such kindness. That hot, stinging moisture came back to her eyes. "Don'tcry Selena. Don'tcry." His finger brushed the wetness away. The words were lovely, as lyrical as a melody. She wanted to lean forward, to press her hands against his chest and feel the warmth of his skin, the rhythm of his heart. Behind him, the strangers moved in closer. G.o.d turned to them. "Do you mind?" In the single heartbeat that he turned away from her, she felt colder, lonelier. The sense of fear returned, became a low pounding in her blood. Don't leave me. The words blossomed in her mind, full-blown and understood. She tried desperately to say them, to plead with him to crawl beneath the bedclothes with her and never turn away again, but somewhere be-tween her brain and her mouth, the words mangled, became a croaking mush of hoa.r.s.e sound. He turned back to her, smiled, and became even more exquisite. "It'sokay. Youneedn't speak." Speak. Something about the sounds, speak, seemed familiar. It was a word. The sudden perception stunned her. A word, she thought, trying to fit the pieces together and failing miserably. A word that had some meaning. She frowned. It was important that she remember, but she couldn't. He brushed the hair from her eyes, and it felt so good. She didn't want to think about words that meant nothing. She closed her eyes to savor his touch, and realized only after he'd withdrawn it that something was wrong. Her hair felt ... matted. For the first time, she wondered how she looked. Was she worthy of this G.o.d's attention? Did she look like a fallen angel herself, sheathed in the pale ivory of the bed linens, her hair splayed out along her arms? She couldn't imagine what she looked like, couldn't draw a single image of herself, not eye color or skin color or anything. But it didn't matter. She saw herself reflected in G.o.d's blue, blue eyes and knew that she pleased him. "You didit doctorcarrick. You saved her." Saved. It was another word she almost understood. The meaning taunted her, teased her consciousness with strange, unconnected images-a bank building, a cookie jar, a cross with a half-naked man nailed to it. Saved. Saved. Understanding came like dawn, slow and creeping and with a shivering warmth. This G.o.d had saved her life. Kept her alive. But how? And from what? How did he know her? She tried to ask a question, but her throat caught fire again and pain spilled down into her stomach. "Justaminute." He eased the long, clear thing from 46 her throat, and when it was gone, she breathed a sigh of relief. The pain abated. She forced herself to try again. "Where . . ." She frowned, her train of thought lost. What had she been going to say? Where ... She tried to remember what the word meant. It had come naturally to her, as if she had once understood and used it easily. Now it was gone, drifting away like an image from a dream, unre-membered upon waking. All that remained was a vague, illusory memory. "Maine." G.o.d answered her forgotten question with another meaningless word. Once again, his deep, melodious voice washed through her, soothing even the pain in her throat. "You're at Lethe House on the coastof Maine. I've been caringfor you." She had no idea what he'd said, but she could tell that he was waiting for her to respond. Images tumbled through her mind. Each new thought, each new image for which she had no word, added to a growing sense of unease. Tension tightened the muscles along her neck and shoulders. She wanted this G.o.d to stay beside her, talking to her in that wonderful voice, brushing the hair from her face. Without him, she would slip back into the darkness-she knew it somehow, knew he was the light through which she'd come back-and she couldn't face the nothingness again. Words teased her, fuzzy and meaningless. She tried to latch on to one, to find some way to communicate, but nothing pushed through the quagmire of her mind. She swallowed, blinking slowly up at G.o.d, making certain he didn't look away. He didn't. His blue gaze held hers in a velvet, rea.s.suring grip. His smile was so bright, it felt like sunlight on her face, heating her, warming her. "I amlan," he said softly. "Who are you?" She concentrated very hard, watching his mouth move, and she thought she discerned three word pat-47 terns in the gibberish he spoke. Very slowly, she tried to repeat it. "I ... am ... Ian." A tiny frown flinched in his thick eyebrows. The brightness of his smile dimmed a fraction. "Say, Ian." She'd done something wrong, had somehow disappointed him. She stared up at him, her mouth trembling, trying to divine the answer in his eyes. But nothing came to her. She was trying so hard to please him, but it felt as if she were wrapped in clouds, layers and layers of fuzzy gray softness. Say. What did that mean ... say? She frowned in concentration, staring into his blue eyes as if they held the answers to the universe. And it came to her. She knew suddenly, simply knew. Say meant speak. Talk. Say Ian. He wanted her to repeat what he'd said. She opened her mouth to answer him and forgot what she'd been going to say. She made a small, moaning sound of frustration. "It'sokay," he said finally. "Wh.o.a.reyou?" Wh.o.a.reyou? She tried hopelessly to decipher the code, to find the secret meaning of his words. Wh.o.a.reyou? He released a small sigh. "It'sokay . . . okay . . . enoughfor today. We've been calling you Selena. That will have to do for now." He turned slightly, and she felt his weight shift off of the bed. He was leaving her. "No!" She reached for him, clinging to his arm. Don't leave me. The words exploded in her head. She fought to release them, to make him understand what she was feeling, what she wanted. To explain how, even now, the horror of the darkness sat curled in the shadows of the room, waiting .. . waiting ... The moisture in her eyes burned, cascaded down her cheeks. Her whole body shook with frustration. She couldn't find the words. Somewhere between her brain and her mouth, the plea was lost forever. She stared at him, ashamed and afraid. Please .. . The single word

48.

flitted through her mind, too elusive to catch or fully understand.

"You want me to stay?"

Stay. The word was like a gift from G.o.d, perfect. She understood.

"Tree," she said in a rush. At his frown, she knew that she'd done something wrong again. The wrong word had slipped from her mouth. He didn't understand. He was pulling away again.

She tightened her hold, feeling the hard muscles of his arm beneath the soft fabric of his sleeve. "Basket."

She winced. No. Not right again.

The smile he gave her this time was a little sad. "You'll be allright," he murmured, stroking the matted hair from her forehead, wiping the moisture from her cheeks. "Youneedn't cry."

Cry. The moisture in her eyes. She remembered suddenly that the water was called tears when it came from the eyes. She'd been crying tears.

"You'llbefine . .. need sleep." He sighed again, and like the smile before it, the gesture was strangely sad.

She offered him a smile, though it hurt to do so. She wanted so much to express what was in her heart, to tell her golden G.o.d that she already was fine, that she was everything he wanted her to be. She couldn't remember anything, couldn't find the words to unlock her emotions or tell him how she felt, but still she knew. In some hidden, primeval pocket of her soul, the knowledge existed. She loved him.

"I am ... Ian," she whispered, placing her hand over his, feeling the comforting warmth of his flesh against hers. Of course she was fine. G.o.d was with her. Still smiling, she fell asleep.

Ian stared down at Selena. She was sleeping peacefully now; there was no evidence that she'd slipped back into the coma.

She had spoken to him, touched him. Even now,

49.

he could feel the warm imprint of her hand on his arm, could feel the warm moisture of her tears on his fingertips.

She had been confused and aphasic, but that was normal, that was to be expected. According to the dozens of books he'd read, no one knew precisely how damage to the brain could affect behavior. Every case was different. But some level of aphasia was to be expected. It was completely normal that Selena would have difficulty retrieving words and speaking and remembering the morphology and syntax of the English language.

Normal.

He sighed, feeling suddenly old.

He'd forgotten what it was truly like to be a doctor. In the past six years, he'd idealized it, had cultivated a glistening, perfect memory of his halcyon days in medicine. He'd remembered the successes, the parties, the flamboyance.

Somewhere along the way, he'd forgotten the terrifying uncertainties, the agonizing fear. The constant dread that a patient would die.

Or be brain-damaged.

Jesus, how had he forgotten all that? How could he have forgotten the times he sat up all night, standing in the shadows of a patient's room, just watching the person breathe? Praying that each breath would be followed by another, and another, and another?

How had he lived through it back then?

It came to him all at once.

Confidence.

That was how he'd manipulated his world and made it from day to day, brushing off the failures and relishing the successes. He'd been supremely, arrogantly self-confident. He'd believed in himself, in his hands, in his power to heal.

He needed that confidence again.

Aphasia was normal. Her recovery was proceeding

SO nicely. He repeated the words over and over again until he believed them. It was too early to think that something was wrong. He'd keep working, keep believing in her and in himself. Together they could slay the medical dragons, together they would triumph. Dr. Carrick and his most challenging patient, changing the face of medical science. "Together, Selena," he whispered, taking her hand in his. "Together, we'll get through this. You'll be fine." He closed his eyes and imagined Harvard again, his triumphant return to medicine. It would happen because he demanded it. She would awaken and she would be injured-of course, she'd be terribly injured-but not irreparably damaged. He would work with her, test her, devote his life to her. Anything to heal her. And if he had to, he'd create her. Pushing back in his chair, he got to his feet. "I'll be right back, Selena. I promised the rabble I'd give them a report." They were all in the drawing room. He paused at the door, hating the thought of opening it. In the six years since his return, he'd kept himself as removed from these people as possible. They were only here to a.s.suage his guilt, anyway. He'd wanted Maeve to be less lonely, and he'd willfully misinterpreted her requests for companionship. She'd wanted Ian with her. In answer to her need, he'd turned Lethe House into a private asylum and opened their home to people like his mother, pretending that that was good enough. He'd tried to give her a family instead of being her family. They didn't need a doctor, this group of misfits and lunatics that society had washed from their collective conscience. Oh, occasionally Ian prescribed a headache powder or directed Edith to dress a wound or st.i.tch a cut, but nothing more taxing than that. He was their 51 keeper, nothing more, and it was more than enough for the families of these poor unfortunates. For Lethe House provided what the families wanted, what proper Victorian society demanded: pretense. And that's what everyone-including Ian-did so easily. Shut these people away and pretend they didn't exist. He went inside and immediately regretted it. The room made him think of his father, the memories wafting back into his subconscious as subtly as the fragrance of the old man's cigar. As a young boy, he'd come into this room often, slipping into the darkness and curling onto the crushed velvet of the settee, to wait for his father to come home. She didn 't know who I was at supper tonight. Why is she like that, Papa .. . why? Neither this room nor his father had ever held an answer to Ian's questions. And now he was here again, seeking answers to questions he couldn't even name, waiting once more. It was a studiously powerful room. A huge mahogany fireplace dominated the burgundy and black chamber. On its carved mantel, a trio of silver candleholders housed bloodred candles, their flames reflected in the immense seventeenth-century mirror that hung above it. Ornately framed paintings covered every square inch of the claret-painted walls, red and black Aubusson rugs covered most of the planked flooring. The chamber was dark and somehow b.l.o.o.d.y, just as his father had intended it to be. A man's room in a man's house, full of hunting trophies and pictures of dying soldiers. Even the knickknack tables were thick and heavy and held ashtrays instead of vases. No woman had ever had a hand in decorating this house, and it showed in every room. "How is she, Doctor?" Ian heard Andrew's question and he ignored it as he poured himself a Madeira. "Why, I would say she's d.a.m.ned poor, Andrew,"

52.

Johann drawled. "Unless, of course, you think 'basket' was what she meant to answer. And there is the possibility that she's named, most coincidentally, Ian."

"Shut up, Johann," Ian said, not taking his gaze from the red and gold highlights in his gla.s.s.

"Ah, Dr. Carrick," Johann said with a dramatic sigh, "once again you comfort me. I can only imagine the help you'll be when the syphilis actually kills me."

Finally, Ian looked up and saw Johann in the rippling, silvered gla.s.s. "You've been 'dying' for years. I think you enjoy the drama of it."