Waiting for the Moon

The inmates gasped softly. He felt their circle tighten around him.

It was a meaningless touch, that first one. A nothing little trailing of his fingertip along the bloody curve of her throat. A test.

Nothing came to him.

Ian's heartbeat sped up. Something was wrong. He had touched her?briefly, yes, but that never mattered before?and he'd felt nothin

g.

Hope slipped through a crack in his armor, weakening him. He tried to fight it, but it was too strong. In

21

sudden, blinding clarity he thought: Maybe for once it won't happen.

He tried to bury the unrealistic prayer beneath a mountain of cold rationality. It always happened.

"Ian, is she alive?"

He heard his mother's voice, but it seemed to come from a million miles away. His heart was hammering in his chest. Sweat had broken out along his brow. He wiped the beaded moisture and swallowed hard.

Barely breathing, he took hold of her wrist. His fingers curled around the slim, pale flesh. He felt the lightning-quick shiver of her pulse, the cool softness of her skin.

And nothing else. He knew nothing about her except that she was alive. At the realization, he felt a shameful stinging in his eyes.

"Ian?" Maeve prompted.

"She's alive."

"Will she die?"

"I don't know." With those words, the old power, the old strength of purpose, overwhelmed him, sweeping aside the isolation of the past six years. Finally, a person?a woman?whose mind was closed to him.

A mystery. Sweet Jesus above, a mystery.

He sat upright. "Prepare a bed on the second floor. Get boiling water and alcohol." He looked up. No one moved.

"Now."

The inmates scattered like insects.

Seconds later, Maeve reappeared and handed him a glass of scotch. Ian stared at it for a second before he realized that he'd asked for alcohol.

Queen Victoria was right behind his mother with a teapot. "Does milord have a cup?"

And boiling water.

He forced back a shout of frustration. "Andrew!" he hollered.

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The reed-thin, sallow-faced youth stepped from the shadows, his eyes wide. "Y-Yes, sir?" "Can you assist me?"

The young man swallowed convulsively. "I'd be honored, sir."

Ian looked pointedly at the man's wrists, still bound in white bandages from last month's suicide attempt. "Can I trust you with a knife?"

"He never tries the same death effort twice," Johann drawled from his place beside Maeve. "He might actually succeed if he did."