kept him moving farther and farther away from people until finally he didn't go out at all.
As soon as he was well, he ran from the hospital, but it didn't help. Incomprehensible visions barraged him, smote him every time he walked in a room, with every accidental touch. Nothing stopped them, not gloves, not alcohol, not drugs; he knew, he'd tried them all.
Nothing stopped them except isolat
ion, the end of all contact.
And so he was here, standing in his cell, looking out at the windy, stormy night, wishing once again that he'd never seen Charlotte, never showed up on her doorstep.
Remembering .. .
Ian turned away from the window, held his throbbing head in hands that felt slick with sweat. Eyes closed, heart pounding, he paced the small, dark room, feeling more and more like a caged, hunted animal with every step.
A timid knock roused him from his pain. "Come in." He growled the words, harsher than he intended. Always harsher than he intended.
The door pushed open and a slim, red-haired woman slipped through the opening. Her small, bare feet made a whispery sound on the wooden floor as she shuffled forward. It took him a second to focus on her, a second more to recognize her. "Maeve?"
She nodded, a swift bob of her head, and took another step toward him, her hands twisted in a pale, nervous ball at her waist. Fear tightened the edges of her mouth, wrinkled the flesh of her forehead.
"What is it, Mother?"
"Ian." She said his name in that soft, swaying voice of hers, her lullaby voice?the one he'd always ached for as a child.
He stared at her hard, tried to see if she was lucid or demented this evening, but his head was pounding too
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painfully to think clearly. She knew his name at least. That was something. "What is it?"
"Th-There's a woman here...." Her lilting voice trailed off. She looked momentarily confused, as if she'd forgotten what she came to say, and he had his answer.
Demented. "Who is it?Dolley Madison?" he said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.
"No, Ian. I'm not crazy tonight. There's a real woman downstairs. A lobsterman brought her in. She's ... hurt."
The word brought him up short. "Hurt?" A pale heat fluttered in his stomach, and he knew instantly what it was: hope.
As quickly as it came, it crashed. His mother was insane; there was no hurt woman downstairs. "Of course, Mother. Hurt women come to insane asylums all the time."
Maeve moved toward him, and for the first time, he noticed the clarity in her hazel eyes. She was lucid now. She wasn't in a world of her own.
"This isn't an asylum, it's my home, and she needs help, Ian. You are a doctor."
Ian stiffened and turned away from his mother quickly.
He stared out the window, watching the storm. Maeve knew he couldn't help the woman. "I'm no doctor. Not anymore." He glanced around for a bottle of scotch. He needed a drink desperately, but his fingers were shaking so badly, he didn't think he could hold a glass.
"Oh, Ian ..."
Once, the sad disappointment in his mother's voice would have ripped his heart out; now it caused nothing but a mild regret. "Send her away."
"You could?"
He spun to face her. "I want to help her?sweet God,
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I'd give my arm to do it, but I can't. You know I can't. Now, go."