Waiting for the Moon

Ian remained at the bottom of the stairs, unmoving, unbreathing, until he was alone and the stairwell was dark and empty once again. He wondered for a second if he'd dreamed it, if he'd risen from his chair and looked outside and really seen nothing at all except the frost on the lawn and the pale scythe of the moon. She couldn't be here, couldn't have looked him in the eye and not cried and said quietly, "My husband is wounded." As if nothing else mattered, just her husband.

"Ian," Maeve yelled from the top of the stairs. "Get up here."

Woodenly he began to move. He went to the study and retrieved his medical bag, then slowly climbed the stairs.

The bedroom was wreathed in darkness and filled with people. "Everyone out," he said in a dull voice. "Only Andrew and Johann and ... Selena can stay."

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No one argued. Maeve shepherded the others outside of the room and shut the door behind them. Andrew busily set about lighting the lamps. Within moments, the room was thick with haze and smelled of smoke. Wavering golden light swept the darkness into cobwebby corners.

Ian walked over to the bed, where already Elliot lay atop the sheets and blankets. His half-scarred face was the same color as the grayed linen pillowcase beneath his head. He was bare-chested, and Ian noticed that the same burn that marred his face and hand had eaten down his side as well. Bandages wrapped his shoulder and part of his chest; the fabric was stained brown with blood.

"What happened?" he asked. "He was shot." "Bullet still in there?" "No. The doctor said he dug it out." Ian nodded, but didn't look at her. He didn't dare. Not yet, not while the pain was so fresh and raw. "Idiot doctor probably used his fingers to dig out the bullet- after gardening, no doubt. Take off the bandages."

Andrew scurried to the bedside and gently peeled the stiff bandages away from Elliot's body as Ian examined the injury. The ragged wound was ringed by flesh that was already an angry red, and a greenish pus pooled in the opening. "It's infected," he said quietly.

Selena came up beside him. He felt her presence, and it took all his strength not to turn to her and take her in his arms. Instead he stood there, not looking at her, looking down at the man who'd taken everything from Ian, taken his very soul.

"Ian." She said his name in that quiet, throaty voice of hers-God, how he'd missed that voice.

He waited for the softness of her touch, the gentle pressure of her fingers on his arm. But she made no move to touch him. "He is a good man, Ian. He does not deserve to die."

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"Doesn't he?" Ian heard the ugly bitterness in his voice and he cursed himself for it. But he couldn't stop it.

"Can you save him?"

I don't want to. Again, so ugly, but he couldn't help himself. He wanted to let Elliot die. Now, tonight. Just move back and do nothing and let the old man die.

Elliot's death was Ian's only chance for a life, and he knew it, had known it the second he looked in Selena's eyes. Her decision hadn't changed. If Ian saved Elliot's life, Selena would leave Ian. Again.

"Ian?" she prompted.

She put a wealth of meaning in that one little word; he felt her expectation, her trust, like a weight against his lungs.

He swallowed hard, wishing-oh, Christ, wishing a million things. All pointless, all impossible. Wishing Elliot had died on the way, that he'd been shot in the head, that there was no way to save him. But mostly he wished he'd never promised Selena to be honorable.

Yet, only in doing his best, giving his best, was he worthy of the woman at his side. And he'd rather die than let her down.

He closed his eyes and tried to prepare for what lay ahead. Breathing deeply, he leaned forward and touched Elliot's fever-hot brow. At first all he felt was the damp heat. Then the images came, spinning deliriously, one after another, until Ian felt weak and dizzy. They came so fast and were gone so quickly, he could only focus on a few of them.

A dirty, dark-haired girl pawing through a garbage can . . . a group of men in somber brown garb sitting on narrow benches ... a white flower ... Selena wearing a dull brown dress, walking in a silent row with other women, her head drooped forward . . . Elliot standing before her with the same white flower.

He got emotions with the pictures: an aching love, a staggering regret. I'm sorry, Agnes. So sorry.

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And the strangest thing of all-a thought, loud and clear and filled with razor-sharp pain. Go to him, Agnes ... promise me. . ..

A headache shot across Ian's eyes, lodged in his temples. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to concentrate on exploring the wound, only that. The hole from the bullet was small and ragged, a black spot oozing poison from just beneath the collarbone. It had missed the heart and lungs.

With treatment, Elliot would live. Without treatment, he would die.

Selena stood beside Ian, still silent. She didn't say anything, and he knew she wouldn't. She would just stand there quietly and wait, believing in Ian more than he'd ever believed in himself. Believing in him with all her heart and soul, knowing he would do the right thing. He sighed. "Get me the carbolic acid, Andrew, lots of it. It's in the herb room in a big black jar. Johann, go to. the washhouse and get some clean, dry sheets. We're going to need new bandages. Tell Edith to start boiling water and bring some up here."

Andrew and Johann ran from the room; the door banged shut behind them.