A flash of honest emotion-maybe anger, maybe pain-flashed through Johann's eyes. "I promised someone I would keep breathing. Even if I didn't want to." He paused for a second, drew in a deep, shaking breath, then forced a smile. "Of course, that's not something the mighty Carrick could ever understand."

"Dr. Carrick?" Andrew said.

Ian knew that he had to answer them. If he didn't, Andrew would just keep asking and asking. It was either turn and run, or turn and answer. And he was too d.a.m.ned tired to run.

He turned around slowly, faced the group of people cl.u.s.tered in the eastern corner of the room. Andrew stood stiff and at attention, his arms pressed close along his sides. Johann leaned against the wall, his shoulder insolently pressed into the painting of a battle. Dotty was hiding amidst the velvet curtains that separated this room from the parlor-apparently the broom closet was full tonight. Queen Victoria was sitting on the dainty settee, her threadbare skirts splayed out around her. Lara lurked in the shadowy background alongside Maeve.

He sighed at the sight of his mother. She sat in a rocking chair, clutching a stuffed squirrel, laughing quietly to herself, twirling that d.a.m.ned sc.r.a.p of fabric through her fingers.

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Ian drained the last of his Madeira and put the gla.s.s on the mantel. "The truth is, I don't know how she is."

"Certainly you don't. You're a doctor," Johann said.

Ian ignored him. "She just came out of a coma that lasted nearly twenty-one days. Anyone would be ...

disoriented. But she showed some signs of understanding. That, at least, was encouraging, I should think."

"Very encouraging," Andrew said solemnly.

"Oh, for G.o.d's sake, why don't you fling yourself at him and be done with it?" Johann snapped, shoving Andrew toward Ian.

"Enough," Ian hissed. "Jesus, why do I bother with you people?" He grabbed his empty gla.s.s and strode for the door.

Johann's sarcastic voice followed him out. "That's easy, Herr Doctor. You're one of us. And so, apparently, is your precious Selena."

Chapter Five.

They were all in her room again, G.o.d and the strangers. She felt their eyes on her, felt their combined expectations like a consistent, crushing weight on her chest. She wanted to please G.o.d, wanted it desperately. But he was easily disappointed, and she was so sleepy. The pain in her head was agonizing.

He moved toward the bed and sat down on his chair. She heard the wooden legs skid across the floor as he scooted close. "Selena." His warm, honeyed voice melted across her skin like a caress. "How about a few tests?"

She groaned. A vague memory taunted her mind, some dim recollection of a movement that signaled her refusal. She concentrated, willed it to the surface . . . something about her head, moving it in some way . .

. side to side ... up and down. It wouldn't come. She looked up at him, pleading with her eyes for understanding.

"Please?"

The softness of his voice tugged at her heart. She saw the disappointment in his gaze and felt ashamed.

This was the man who had saved her. She struggled to rise to her elbows. At the movement, the pounding in her head intensified. Nausea settled heavily in her stomach.

His strong arm curled around her waist, drew her close. Sliding the coverlet back, he gently tilted her up

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right. Her bare legs swung over the bed and dangled above the floor. He moved out of the chair and sat beside her on the bed. She let out a little sigh and leaned against him, pressing her cheek into the solid ball of his shoulder.

"Are you okay on your own now?"

She stared at his mouth, trying to unravel the secret of his words, but it was hard to concentrate. Her head was on fire.

He started talking again, too fast, always too fast. Asking questions and more questions, looking at her, staring at her. Waiting.

Frustration magnified the pounding in her skull. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out except a gasping, guttural groan, and then, finally, a wheezing "... now ..." that seemed to take forever.

"Take your time, Selena. Concentrate."

She couldn't understand him. Nothing. Her frustration spilled into anger. She should know how to speak, should be able to understand and answer his questions. Then, all at once, the anger was gone, and all she had left was the pain. She curled forward and cradled her hammering head in sweaty hands. Make it stop . . . make it stop.

He slipped his arms around her and drew her close. "It's okay, Selena. Don't worry. It's okay."

She melted into his arms. The urgent sense of despair faded away. As always, the sound of his voice eased her frustration and fear.

"Here, come with me." He tightened his hold on her shoulder and helped her stand.

The floorboards were delightfully cold on her bare feet. He maneuvered her across the room, past the strangers, to the small gla.s.s box in the wall. With one finger, he flicked back the lacy white curtain and offered her the world.

It was so beautiful, so unexpectedly magnificent, that for a second, she forgot her headache. The large lawn,

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wearing the lush green coat of spring, rolled out from the house into a thick glade of towering evergreen trees. Dozens of pale new buds sparkled on still bare tree limbs. Beyond, the sea was an endless, hammered sheet of silver, rolling gently into the rocky sh.o.r.eline. A single bird circled above the water, crying out its keening wail as it dove, wings tucked, into the icy blue.

She reached for the bird. Her knuckles cracked into something cold and brittle and invisible. She drew back, confused. "Want ..." was all she could manage to say.

He touched her wrist, gently drew her hand toward him. "Let's do another test, okay?"

She tried to tell him that she wanted to go outside, wanted to see the world that lay beyond this dark, too quiet room. Her mouth opened, closed. Nothing came out. She could think the thoughts, but she couldn't translate them into speech. The headache started again.

He led her back to the bed and gave her a small board. She sat down and stared down at the thing he'd placed in her lap. It was a small wooden oval, dotted with holes.

He handed her a square peg. "Now, put that in the square hole."

Square hole. Neither of the words meant anything to her. She had no idea what he was asking her to do.

She stared at the little wooden spike in her hand, trying to ignore the pounding in her head.

"Go ahead."

Frustration exploded inside her, made her feel sick and shaky and utterly alone. What about her head?

"Selena-"

She threw the spike across the room and lurched to her feet. Unsteady, shaking, she started walking toward the strangers. She wasn't sure where she was going, or why, but suddenly she needed to move.

The people parted wordlessly. Behind them, she saw a small table, draped in lacy white fabric. A thick black

57.

tube sat on a pewter holder. Above the tube, a golden-purple light throbbed magically.

The beautiful, flickering light mesmerized her. She turned to G.o.d, tried to tell him how lovely it was, but again the words were lost between her brain and tongue.

He stared at her in silence, watching her through a.s.sessing, narrowed eyes. For the first time, she felt a coldness in his gaze, as if he'd given up on her.

Her stomach clenched. She looked away, moved toward the table.

He said something-meaningless mush of sound. Too fast. He was talking too fast, and she didn't want to listen anyway. She just wanted to see the sparkling color up close. She reached for it.

"No!"

She heard the shouted warning a second after she touched the wondrous light. Pain ignited on her fingertips. She gasped and yanked her hand back, staring down at the bright pink spots forming on her flesh.

"Jesus Christ." G.o.d pushed the strangers aside and grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her toward the commode. There, he splashed water from the pitcher into the porcelain basin and plunged her hand into it.

The pain vanished in liquid.

Confused, she glanced back at the tube. The bright color was gone; in its place, a skinny black string floated upward.

"Fire," Ian said, pointing to the tube. "Fire. Jesus Christ .. ."

The minute he said "fire," she remembered. The tube was a candle, and the beautiful red-gold spot was a flame. She looked up at Ian, tried to tell him that she understood. It took forever for her to say the single word. "Bench."

That disappointed look darkened his eyes again, and she felt a crushing sense of shame.

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"Poor thing, she's a bloomin' idiot," one of the strangers whispered.

"You should know," another answered before G.o.d shouted for silence.

She didn't understand the words, but she knew they were all disappointed in her. She'd done something wrong again.

"Go back to bed, Selena. We'll try again tomorrow." He looked at her. When she didn't move, he sighed and rolled his eyes. "Do you understand? Go back to bed now."

She swallowed the thick lump in her throat. She understood. He was disgusted with her. She was bad.

Stupid.

He turned away. "Edith, take care of her."

"... G.o.d ..." She wanted to know what she'd done wrong. How to make him smile at her again.

He gave her a weary look. 'Tomorrow you'll be fine," he said, but she could see that he didn't believe it.

And neither did she.

Ian walked through his silent forest cathedral at the break of day. Pinp.r.i.c.k streams of sunlight spilled down through the evergreen ceiling, danced in golden patches on the brown-needled forest floor. It was quiet here, as it always was at dawn, the only sound the low, even breathing of the sea.

He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, feeling the sting of the wind against his eyelids as he came to the water's edge. The smooth wool of his black cape whipped out behind him, flapped softly in the salty air.

Overhead, a gull wheeled and cawed.

He sat down on a hulking square of granite and pulled out his journal. Flipping to a blank page, he put on his spectacles and began to write.

Twenty-first, April, 1882.

Ran visual, auditory, and touch tests today on patient. Consistent failure on patient's part to recognize