Kiss me, Ian.
He sank to his knees and stared up at the starlit sky. He wondered if she was outside right now, staring up at the same full moon and remembering him.
Where was she? What was she doing now?
They were the first questions he asked himself every
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morning when he woke up, and the last ones he asked before bed. He was sick with the need to know, to see her one more time. Constantly he thought of her, worried about her. Could she deal with loneliness? Had he taught her that?
He couldn't remember now if she'd ever been alone here. He'd taught her philosophy and religion and how to think, but had he taught her how to survive?
God, he wanted to go to her, follow her and sneak through the bushes like a criminal, watching her, just making sure that she still smiled. Still laughed. Still saw the sun behind every cloud.
But he couldn't go to her, he knew that, told himself the same thing every night and every morning. Honor demanded that he stay, just as it demanded that she go. And what would he say when he got there, anyway? Good-bye again? All he could give her now was the gift of his discipline. The gift of his absence. I shall be honorable always. Always ... God, how he'd come to hate those words in the two months she'd been gone.
She had, as always, demanded the very best from him, the ultimate proof of his honor and his decency. Now he supposed he was as good a man as he'd ever been or ever would be. He'd done the things that would have made her happy-he'd begun building a true asylum on the property, one that would easily house fifteen patients. He'd contacted all of his old colleagues and told them that Lethe House was open for a very select group of disturbed patients; neither financial nor social considerations were relevant. He'd corresponded with Drs. Freud and Wellsby, and several prominent alienists. Slowly Ian was learning the basis for this new profession of his.
Strangely enough, he found that what he did to make her happy made him, if not happy, then at least content. Pleased with himself for the first time in years. Andrew was making great strides, and in truth, Ian had never
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been so proud of anything or anyone as he was of the boy.
And Lara. Sweet, guileless Lara was more of a comfort to him than he would have thought possible. For hours they sat together, sometimes reading, sometimes drawing, sometimes saying nothing at all.
On the outside, Ian's life looked to be improving. But everyone in Lethe House knew the truth.
They understood his moods, his depression, his overwhelming sense of loss. His need for Selena was a riving, burning, growing thing inside him. It brought him out into the darkness every night, too weak to stand, too lonely to cry. Missing her. Oh, God, missing her ...
'Take care of her," he prayed to the God who'd given him so much and taken even more away. 'Take care of her."
Autumn came to the settlement on a cold, soughing wind.
Elliot glanced at the washhouse. Again.
The squat white building rose up from the already dying grass, its white walls a stark contrast to the searing blue sky. Multicolored leaves lay scattered across the lawn, in airy heaps at the bases of the trees. Soon they would be gone, swept into big wooden baskets and carried away.
Through the clear windows, he could see Sister Lucy's back. As always, she was hunched over the trestle table, ironing.
He strained to catch a glimpse of his wife-just a look, Lord, just a look. Tomorrow, he knew, Agnes and Lucy would begin their rotation in the kitchen, baking pies, and he would be denied even the simple pleasure of seeing her during the day.
He clutched the wooden ax handle in sweaty hands and repositioned the piece of wood on the chopping block. In a single swift, sure motion he swung the ax and split the wood in quarters.
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He tossed it onto the growing stack of firewood and paused, wiping the perspiration from his brow with his bandanna.
God help him, he glanced at the washhouse again.
He tried not to think of Agnes, knew it was a sin to dwell on memories of her so often, but he couldn't help himself. She had changed so completely since her return. Each day she seemed a paler and paler imitation of the woman he'd seen at Lethe House.
She was trying to fit in. She walked straight and tall and had learned to speak quietly, if at all. She carried herself with an elegant grace and seemed to be serene.
But Elliot knew her too well to be fooled. She was failing. The grace and serenity were a fragile cover. A layer of glittering ice on a dark, turbulent pond. When she'd first returned, her moods had been childlike and obvious, from giddy laughter at a raindrop's beauty to a teary-eyed sadness at the death of a turkey. No more. Now her moods were flat and even, unvaried by anything, unleavened by curiosity. Nothing here intrigued her or captivated her. She sat at the family meetings like a colorless ghost, almost smiling, making eye contact, but never really seeing anything. She never complained, never argued, never disagreed.
And never laughed.