Waiting for the Moon

awe. As if sharing the horror diminished it. Or perhaps two people simply carried the burden more easily than one.

Chapter Twenty-eight

There was laughter coming from somewhere,

Elliot peeled back the warm, heavy blanket and

gently eased to a sit. The pain in his shoulder was still

there, a low, thudding drone, but it was bearable now.

The sharp, biting agony of the past few days was gone.

He flipped back the coverlet and got awkwardly to his feet. The thick flannel nightshirt he'd been given strained across his chest and pinched his arms as he walked to the window.

Outside, it was a beautiful early winter morning. Sunlight pierced a high layer of haze and glittered across the steel gray sea. A layer of sparkling snow dusted everything.

Directly in front of the house, on a large patch of scuffed snow, people clad in heavy cloaks and hats and mittens played croquet. He recognized the players- Agnes, Johann, Andrew, and the woman they called the queen. Another old woman stood huddled in a thicket of trees, gesturing wildly to no one. In one corner, by herself, Lara sat on a tree stump, playing with a pair of rag dolls. And Maeve danced and swooped and somersaulted, a stuffed raccoon clutched in her arms. Only Ian was missing.

The chattering sound of their talk drifted upward, peppered now and again with laughter.

Elliot drew away from the window before he was 356

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seen. With a sigh, he leaned back against the cold wall and tried not to dwell on the scene below.

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; He'd searched for a place like this all of his life. Once, years ago, he'd thought he'd found it in the Believers, but now, as he stood here amidst the faraway laughter, the truth was painfully obvious. A family was not a community of people who believed in a common cause; it was not raising children by groups or sleeping in sterile rooms with members of your own sex. It wasn't orderly and tidy and self-contained.

A family was what he saw on the snow-covered lawn. A big, messy, laughing group of people who cared for each other.

The thought hurt, so he pushed it away. He walked stiffly to the heavy oak armoire and opened the carved, mirrored doors. Inside, his clothes hung from brass hooks. He struggled out of the too tight nightshirt and slipped on his old woolen pants and linen shirt. By the time he was finished, he was winded and his chest ached.

He sat down until the pain passed, then he got to his feet and walked slowly to the door. There was something he needed to do.

Ian stood at the open parlor window, watching the party on his front lawn, listening to the laughter. Every nuance of sound, every giggle or cry or yowl of mock hurt, was a knife that drove into him. He wanted to be out there with them, pretending everything was normal, but how could he? How could he look at Selena and feel anything but a yawning despair?

Behind him, the door creaked open. Footsteps shuffled slowly inside. There was a pause, then slowly, a masculine voice said, "Dr. Carrick?"

Ian's breath caught. A sharp pain lodged in his chest. He schooled his face into an impassive mask and slowly turned around. Elliot stood in the doorway, his head

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hung low, his suit wrinkled and still stained with old blood. He looked ancient, beaten.

Good, thought Ian with a surge of bitterness, but even as he felt the emotion, he lost it. Elliot wasn't triumphant or boasting or cocky. He was just an old man who'd loved a special woman for a very long time.

Ian walked to the sterling silver tea and coffee set and poured himself a steaming cup of coffee. "You're up," he said into the quiet, "How do you feel?"

"Alive."

Ian nodded. It felt as if he should say something, do something, but he couldn't think of what it could be. Short of groveling before the old man, or killing him, Ian had no recourse. "Your wound is healing nicely."

"It feels better. Thank you."

"Hmmm," Ian said with a nod. Then he waited.