Waiting for the Moon

"I'm sorry, Giles. It isn't you, of course. I'm here because you're the best alienist I know. It's simply this place. The memories . .." He let his sentence trail off.

Giles's face softened. "I understand. And how is the lovely Maeve?"

"The same, I'm afraid."

Giles nodded slowly.

A pause enveloped the trio, then Giles cleared his throat. "So, back to the point at hand. You've come to see Elizabeth and how she's faring, I take it."

Ian's heart seemed to stop for a second. "Is she still alive?"

"Yes," Giles answered in a voice so soft, Ian could scarcely hear it. "She's still alive, and still here."

Still here. That was not a good sign.

101

Ian dreaded the next question with everything in him. "Any improvement?"

"I think you'd best see Elizabeth for yourself, Ian. Then we can discuss the particulars."

Chapter Nine

The shadowy corridor was filled with the same gray-clad people, milling aimlessly to and fro. Ian walked stiffly forward, with Johann on his right side and Giles at his left.

An old, gray-haired woman hurled herself at Giles, her withered fingers clawing at him. She shrieked, spraying spittle, yanking at her clothing. "I need to leave, Superintendent Wellsby-"

Giles kept moving, and the woman fell in a sobbing heap at his feet.

People, everywhere people. Crying out, reaching, yelling and screaming to be heard. Their pleas jumbled together, merged into a great, keening cry.

"... a terrible mistake-"

"My husband, Superintendent Wellsby, have you seen my husband yet today-"

"I'm drowning, drowning-"

Ian tried to shut the voices out, to hear nothing except for the repetitive click of their bootheels on the marble floor or the hushed jangle of Giles's keys, but it was impossible. The noise was deafening.

They turned a corner, and almost as if on cue, the rabble dispersed, leaving in their wake a hallway that was lonely and dark. Closed doors lined the walls, windowless, locked. Low, moaning voices slid beneath the cracks and wafted through the dank air.

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103

"This is the catatonic ward," Giles said. "Even the inmates are afraid to wander down this hallway." He stopped at the last closed door. Reaching down to the heavy chatelaine on his belt, he pulled up the clanking mass and extracted a single key.

He fit it in the rusted lock and clicked it open. Before he pushed the door open, he turned to Ian. Giles seemed, in the pale gaslight, to have aged ten years during the short span of their walk. His cheeks were waxen, his face a map of tiny, downward wrinkles. "Once in," he said quietly, "they never come out."

The door opened with a whining creak, revealing a room of surprising size and comfort. Square ivory walls, dotted with ornately framed pictures, surrounded a large, four-postered bed, its surface heaped with a snowy coverlet.

An old woman sat in a wooden rocking chair, her head turned to the barred window at her left. Long strands of curly gray hair sheathed her face, fell in wispy folds to her lap. Ian heard the soft, muttering murmur of her voice, but he couldn't make out any words, just a jumble of confused, halting speech. In her lap, her hands lay curled like fishhooks. A silver and diamond ring glittered on the third finger of her left hand.

"Elizabeth?" Giles said her name in a hushed tone.

She didn't move, didn't look up.

Giles motioned the men to follow him as he walked slowly up to her chair and kneeled at her feet. "Elizabeth, honey, I've brought some people to see you."