Waiting For The Moon Part 7

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stand. Holding her close, he guided her to a slow, unsteady walk.

The strangers parted in a separating wave. She caught sight of a thin, yellow-haired girl sucking her finger and a frail, red-haired woman. She wanted to say something to one of them, but before she could think of a concrete word, he had moved her past the crowd.

In a sweeping gesture that made her laugh, he picked her up. Her bare legs crooked over his powerful arms, swung in the cool, cool air. He carried her to the end of the darkened hallway and stopped at a small wooden door that made a lovely creaking sound when he pushed it open. He went inside the room and put her down.

"This is the bathing chamber."

It was lovely, so different from the plain, white-walled room that was all she'd ever seen. There were tiny pink flowers and green leaves everywhere. It looked just like the world beyond the window, glowing and vibrant and alive.

She walked toward the walls and put her hands out to touch the beautiful flowers.

Flat. Frowning, she pressed closer, sniffed the small pink buds. No smell, either.

She looked back at Ian-G.o.d, trying to find words to express her confusion.

"Wallpaper," he said, coming up beside her. "Painted flowers." He drew a single flower from the vase on the mantel and presented it to her. "Real."

She had never seen anything so beautiful. So exquisite. She wanted to feel it, taste it. A perfume-sweet fragrance wafted to her nostrils, teased her with a treasured, unexpected memory. She grabbed the flower from him.

A dozen spikes drove into the tender flesh of her palm. With a startled cry, she drew her hand back.

Dots of red oozed from her skin.

"d.a.m.n it." He yanked the flower back and stomped it beneath his heel.

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"No!" But she was too late. The beautiful pink petals were crushed, the flower broken. She looked up at him, confused.

"Thorns. Don't touch it again." At her puzzled look, he grabbed her hand, pulled the b.l.o.o.d.y palm up toward him. "See? Pain. Thorn. Oh, Christ ..."

She didn't understand. Had she done something wrong?

He stared at her for a long time, saying nothing. Then he touched her cheek and sighed. "Who are you, my G.o.ddess," he whispered softly, "that you don't remember about thorns?"

He was talking too fast again. She didn't understand the words, but she heard a wistful sadness in his voice. Somehow, she'd failed him again.

"Good-bye, Selena. Be a good girl for Edith."

She stared up at him, afraid he'd hear the tears in her voice if she spoke. Slowly she nodded.

And then he was gone.

Selena stood in the center of the room, alone. Fear welled up inside her, made her want to cry. She bit down on her lower lip, wis.h.i.+ng she knew what she'd done wrong.

Edith bustled in from the open doorway. She withdrew a single flower from the vase on the table and wrapped a towel around the th.o.r.n.y stem. Keeping her gaze locked on Selena's, the old woman moved forward, the blossom outstretched. "Here you go, la.s.sie. 'Tis a rose."

Rose. The flower was called a rose, and she remembered all at once that it came in many colors.

"I'll put some scent of roses in your bathwater, eh, child?"

Selena didn't understand. The woman-Edith-was speaking too quickly, and there was a strange foreign-ness to her words. She didn't sound like Ian. Still, it was better to simply nod and pretend. Better that than speak and disappoint.

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She nodded.

Edith moved toward her and began unb.u.t.toning the small circles on Selena's nightdress. Selena watched in fascination. The woman's pudgy pink fingers took hold of a pearly drop-b.u.t.ton, she remembered suddenly- and pushed it through the hole. One, two, three, four, five.

"Arms up," Edith said.

Selena nodded.

Edith took hold of her wrists. "Arms," she said with a little squeeze for emphasis.

Selena understood.

"Arms up," Edith repeated, and this time Selena knew what the old woman was asking for.

Slowly she pushed her hands up into the air.

"Good girl." She eased the nightdress over Selena's head and draped the lacy garment over the back of a burgundy velvet chair.

Selena stared in utter fascination at her naked body. Slowly she ran her hands over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, feeling the pink tips pucker and tighten. At the touch, a s.h.i.+ver pa.s.sed through her belly.

Edith laughed nervously. "Come along now, none of that." She took hold of Selena's hand and led her to the small, white stool along the wall. Long bra.s.s tubes ran from the back of the stool, disappearing into an ornately scrolled white box just beneath the ceiling. A chain dangled from the box.

"Toilet," Edith said, pointing at the stool. "Do you remember how to use one?"

Selena moved slowly toward the toilet and stared down at it for a long time, waiting for some hint of an image to surface in her mind.

"Sit down on it, la.s.sie. Maybe that'll remind you."

Selena straddled the thing and sat down. It felt cool and slick on the inside of her thighs. She stared at the bra.s.s pipe, marveling at the color.

Edith touched her arm. "Turn around." When Selena

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failed to understand, Edith helped her move her position.

It felt instantly familiar, sitting on the circular opening, and she remembered what she was supposed to do. A second later, she felt a rush of moisture and the tinkling sound of water dripping on water.

"Good girl," Edith said, handing her some wadded-up paper.

Selena used the paper and stood up.

"Now, over here," Edith said, taking her by the arm. "Bathtub."

Selena stared at the white thing full of water and understood. "Bathtub." She walked toward it, noticing the heated, cloudy haze that clung to the surface of the water. She could smell the humid scent of it, almost remember the slick, hot feel of it against her flesh. She clutched the sleek white edge and started to climb in, but before her toe touched the water, she saw something that surprised her.

Behind the bathtub was a pink stone fireplace, with a small fire blazing in the grate. Above the mantel hung a huge mirror. Inside the gla.s.s, another naked woman was getting into another bathtub.

Selena stopped, staring at the gla.s.s. A swollen, purple face stared back at her.

She frowned. The woman in the gla.s.s frowned.

She turned to Edith, trying to ask the question. All she could manage was the word, "Who-"

Edith's laughter was low and rolling. "Why, 'tis you, la.s.sie. Selena." She took Selena by the hand and led her to the gla.s.s.

"That's Selena in the mirror. You."

She stared at the face. Dark brown eyes stared back at her from a puffy, cut, discolored oval. Her face was purplish black, with seeping yellowish patches along her jaw. The skin was so swollen and bloated, there were no features left at all.

She remembered the word for what she saw. "Ugly,"

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she whispered. Tears caught in her eyes, blurred the image, and she was glad for them, glad for the soft veil they created. "Ugly."

"No, la.s.sie, not ugly. Hurt." Edith touched Selena's cheek. "The ugly will pa.s.s when the hurt is gone."

Selena didn't need to understand the words. She could see the answer in the mirror. And finally she understood why Ian-G.o.d had left her.

Minutes crawled by on weak legs. Ian pulled his pocket watch out-again-and checked the time:

11:15.

What was taking them so blasted long?

"Apparently bathing the princess is a protracted procedure," Johann said. "No doubt she keeps drinking the water."

"Shut up, Johann," Andrew said, shooting a quick look at Ian.

Ian did his best to ignore them all. The crazies were in the drawing room with him, sprawled in corners and sitting on chairs and lounging in doorways. He felt their collective stare like a slow, suffocating weight on his throat.

He stared at the small, square board in his lap.

Square peg in a square hole. A child can do it, for G.o.d's sake. Even Maeve could do it.

"You're holding that d.a.m.n game as if it were a sword," Johann drawled, strolling toward the fireplace.

"She won't pa.s.s, you know. The poor incompetent still thinks her name is Ian."

Ian leveled a cool, contemptuous glance at the younger man. "She'll pa.s.s."

Johann's thin lips slid into a strained smile. "Ah, a dreamer. How quaint."

Maeve looked up from the stuffed owl in her lap. "I dreamed I went to Paris last night. It was beautiful."

Queen Victoria grunted. "I spit on France."

Ian rolled his eyes. Lord, would it never end? He looked at the closed door. He should push through it

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T.