Waiting for the Moon

66

He peeled the quilt back slowly, so slowly, revealing a thin, bruised body sheathed in clinging ivory lace. The nightdress bunched around her middle and twisted across her thighs. Pale legs stuck out from beneath the lacy hem.

He touched her calf. She felt the warm dampness of each finger on her skin. "Would you like to walk?like before?"

She looked up at him. Some part of her mind wanted to answer, but she couldn't remember what to say. Then she couldn't remember what he'd asked.

He threaded his fingers through hers, provided her with the anchor of his presence and gently pulled her forward. Her back arched, and her heavy, heavy head fell back. At the movement, pain shot into her skull.

She moaned softly, squeezing her eyes shut.

He was beside her instantly, holding her, stroking the swollen side of her face, his arm curled comfortingly around her shoulders. "It's okay. Breathe deeply, relax."

The words spun through her pain-ridden head, merging, elongating. Meaningless.

But it sounded so nice. She let his voice wrap around her, soothe her. She concentrated on that, only that, until the pain melted into a dull, throbbing ache. That, she could live with.

Letting out a sigh of relief, she opened her eyes, and found herself in his arms.

"All better? Nod if you're better."

She frowned. What was nod?

He touched her chin, held it in a soft grip, and forced her head up slowly, then down. "Nod," he said, repeating the gesture until she understood.

"Now, do you feel better?"

Hesitantly, staring up at him for approval, she nodded.

He gave her a bright smile. "Good." Carefully he eased his arm beneath her knees and helped her to

67

stand. Holding her close, he guided her to a slow, unsteady walk.

The strangers parted in a separating wave. She caught sight of a thin, yellow-haired girl sucking her finger and a frail, red-haired woman. She wanted to say something to one of them, but before she could think of a concrete word, he had moved her past the crowd.

In a sweeping gesture that made her laugh, he picked her up. Her bare legs crooked over his powerful arms, swung in the cool, cool air. He carried her to the end of the darkened hallway and stopped at a small wooden door that made a lovely creaking sound when he pushed it open. He went inside the room and put her down.

"This is the bathing chamber."

It was lovely, so different from the plain, white-walled room that was all she'd ever seen. There were tiny pink flowers and green leaves everywhere. It looked just like the world beyond the window, glowing and vibrant and alive.

She walked toward the walls and put her hands out to touch the beautiful flowers.

Flat. Frowning, she pressed closer, sniffed the small pink buds. No smell, either.

She looked back at Ian-God, trying to find words to express her confusion.

"Wallpaper," he said, coming up beside her. "Painted flowers." He drew a single flower from the vase on the mantel and presented it to her. "Real."

She had never seen anything so beautiful. So exquisite. She wanted to feel it, taste it. A perfume-sweet fragrance wafted to her nostrils, teased her with a treasured, unexpected memory. She grabbed the flower from him.

A dozen spikes drove into the tender flesh of her palm. With a startled cry, she drew her hand back. Dots of red oozed from her skin.

"Damn it." He yanked the flower back and stomped it beneath his heel.

68