Land of a Thousand Dreams (29 page)

She had promised herself she would not be a nuisance, would not aggravate the grown-ups. Sandemon and the
Seanchai
needed her to be a help during this time, not a bother. She did her utmost to be quiet about the house and lend a hand wherever she could.

But sometimes she got to feeling terribly alone, perhaps even a bit fearful. Lately, she couldn't help wondering if the
Seanchai
would actually go ahead with the adoption. She wouldn't ask, of course. More than likely, he hadn't given it a thought since the terrible business with Finola, and that being the case, she didn't think she'd want to hear him
say
it. It was painful and frightening enough just to
think
it.

“Please, Lord, Sir, if that's the situation, could You perhaps just prod the
Seanchai
's memory a bit, once Finola starts to feel better? Not now, of course—he's too worried and distracted at present, I know. But later, perhaps You could just make sure he doesn't forget it entirely.”

Reaching her room, Annie went in. She was pleased to find Fergus asleep on the floor at the foot of the bed, but she couldn't resist scolding him a bit. “Napping, are you, lazy beast? What's the matter, then, did the TROUBLESOME NUN tire of your company?”

For the life of her, Annie could not understand the bond between Fergus and the nun. Starched and stern with
her,
the nun played the great fool over the wolfhound—when she thought nobody was looking, that is.

And, great eejit that he was, Fergus reveled in the attention. At times he seemed inclined to be almost as much a friend to the nun as he was to Annie!

“I'm that put out with you, you know,” she grumbled, dropping down on the floor beside him. “I'm tired of having to coax you away from that TROUBLESOME NUN when I want you! You're
my
dog, after all. 'Twas me who took you in and convinced the
Seanchai
and Sand-Man to let you stay, you might be remembering! You're ungrateful entirely, I'm thinking, and if you don't change your ways, you might just find yourself sleeping in the stable!”

The dimwitted dog simply grinned at her and threw a large, ungainly paw in her lap.

“Don't try your tricks on me, you ungrateful beast,” Annie muttered, nevertheless taking the big paw into her hand and holding on to it.

After a moment, though, she forgot her irritation. “Have you been to visit Finola yet today?” she asked him, giving a deep sigh. “I stopped in, just a bit ago. There's no change. She just lies there, staring at people as if she doesn't see them at all. She doesn't even seem to recognize me, and we were getting to be great friends.”

Annie paused, again unsettled by the worrisome thought that Finola might
never
be any different, that she might simply stay as she was…forever.

“Oh, Fergus! It's such a sad thing, her being as she is! She's so lovely and sweet and good! I
hate
that awful person who did this to her! I hope God strikes him—”

Annie clamped a hand over her mouth, staring in horror at the wolfhound as she realized what she'd been about to say. “Oh, I'm sorry, Lord! I am! I know I'm not supposed to wish bad things on anyone—not even a creature like the one who hurt Finola! But it's simply not fair! It's not fair at all! He ought to be punished, and punished severely, it seems to me.”

She paused, thinking. “Sand-Man says that You're in charge of—of
vengeance,
that You'll see him pay, whoever he is. I hope so, Lord! I can't think of anything bad enough to pay him back for what he did to Finola, but perhaps You can.”

The dog whimpered as if commiserating with her, then lay his great head in her lap. Rubbing his ears, Annie went on, her voice lower now so as not to invite heavenly repercussions for her previous outburst.

“I get so angry sometimes, Fergus! So angry I could pop! Sand-Man says that kind of anger is wrong, but I can tell
he
gets angry, too, whenever somebody brings up poor Finola. He doesn't say a word, but I can tell he's angry, all the same. I see it in his eyes.”

Stroking the wolfhound's back, she gave another huge sigh. “I wonder how Finola feels inside,” she said. “I wonder if she isn't in a fierce rage, even if we can't see it.” A small, hard knot of unhappiness swelled in Annie's throat. “It must be a terrible thing, to be hurt and angry and not be able to tell anyone about it.”

The wolfhound moaned his understanding, and Annie went on. “One thing I believe, Fergus, and I wouldn't say it to anyone else but you—not that anyone would pay heed to me even if I
did
—but I think that surgeon is
wrong
entirely, not to let the
Seanchai
near Finola!”

The dog raised his big head, studying her face, and Annie nodded. “Aye, I'm convinced of it! Finola does dote on the
Seanchai,
I
know
she does. Why, the way she looks at him—at least the way she
did
look at him before this terrible thing happened—it seemed the morning sun rose in her eyes! And the
Seanchai
adores her. I saw it in his face. If the surgeon would only allow him to sit beside her and talk to her…perhaps even sing his songs to her…she loved it when he sang. I could tell she did…why, I wouldn't be at all surprised if she didn't get better right away! I just
feel
it, Fergus! Truly, I do!”

“I'm not so sure but what I agree with you, Annie Delaney.”

At the sound of the quiet voice behind her, Annie whipped around hard enough to dislodge Fergus from her lap.

“I believe you may be absolutely right,” Sister Louisa repeated. “Perhaps the two of us should say as much to the
Seanchai
.”

Annie gaped at her, speechless. The nun stood close enough to touch her, and for once she looked less the policeman and more a warm-blooded human being. Then she did a most amazing thing: she actually put her hand to Annie's shoulder—and
squeezed
it!

“It occurs to me,” Sister Louisa said reasonably, “that the two of us might just go and talk with him right now.”

Faith, and didn't she sound almost
kind
? Why, even her eyes—eyes that ordinarily would slice marble—were kind!

Annie stared. “The two of us? Talk to the
Seanchai?”

The nun gave a nod and then—and then, the most incredible thing happened: she smiled.
The TROUBLESOME NUN smiled!

Annie scrambled to her feet. “D'you mean it, Sister? You'll go with me?”

Again, Sister Louisa nodded. “Indeed, I will,” she said firmly. “I've thought as much for quite some time now, but was reluctant to suggest it, for fear I would offend. But you know the two of them far better than I. I trust your judgment.”

Annie swallowed hard. Her mouth had gone dry as straw. “You—you trust my judgment?”

Sister nodded. “The surgeon's way isn't working at all, that much is evident. If there was indeed a bond of trust and affection between Finola and the
Seanchai
before the attack, it's quite possible that this business of keeping them apart may only be making things worse for her.”

Taking Annie by the hand, she said, “Come along.” The wolfhound barked, and she added, “Yes, you, too, old boy. You can come with us.”

Fergus fell in between them, and again the nun smiled. Suddenly, an astonishing thing struck Annie: Sister Louisa seemed to have lost her vinegary look! Where had the stern and stuffy face gone?

Uncomfortably, she shifted from one foot to the other. The truth was, she had seen the nun smile before today. The
entire
truth was, the nun had smiled at
her,
and on more than one occasion. She had simply ignored it, until now.

But now she noticed. Annie stared at the smile, transfixed to see that the nun was not so unattractive, after all. She was old, of course—she must be well past forty if a day—but in spite of that, she had a rather nice face when she smiled. Why, it might even be considered a somewhat… pretty face.

Immediately, she squeezed her eyes shut and shuddered. No doubt it was a wicked and blasphemous thought, to think of one of God's nuns as—
pretty!

When Annie finally opened her eyes, Sister was watching her with a very strange look. But, wonder of wonders, the TROUBLESOME NUN was still smiling!

17

The Singer and the Swan

Long the swans have wandered over lake and river.
Gone is all the glory of the race of Lir,
Gone and long forgotten like a dream of fever;
But the swans remember the sweet days that were.

KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON (1861–1931)

O
n the third consecutive day of disobeying the surgeon's instructions, Morgan took his harp along when he went to Finola's room.

The first day, he had scarcely drawn breath as he sat beside the silent, slender form on the bed. He simply sat watching her, praying for her, willing her to acknowledge him.

It was an unnerving thing, seeing those glorious blue eyes opened wide, even turned in his direction, yet seemingly unaware of his presence. It made him feel invisible—and altogether helpless.

There had been no change on the second day, although he'd ventured to speak a few soft words. The words had gone unanswered, and his fear for her had only increased.

At last he had decided to heed Annie's suggestion. She had reminded him, this fey, capricious child, of Finola's great love for the music, of the depth of emotion it seemed to call forth from her in the days before the attack. Although he could not bring himself to hope too much, Morgan allowed that the lass's idea was at least worth a try.

And so today, when he wheeled himself into the bedroom, the harp was in his arms. He stopped halfway into the room, waiting. Although Finola seemed to pay no heed whatsoever to his being there, there was always the danger she would stir and panic at his presence, just as the surgeon had warned. He would not risk it.

After a moment, he wheeled himself up to the bed where Lucy was seated on the opposite side. At Morgan's approach, she moved to go, but he gestured that she should stay.

Small One, Finola's cat, lay dozing near the foot of the bed. This was Lucy's idea, her attempt to keep things, as much as possible, the way Finola was used to them.

The cat stirred, raised her head just enough to eye Morgan, then settled back to her nap.

“No change?” Morgan questioned Lucy in a hushed voice.

The woman shook her head, her gaze intent on Finola's face. She had proved a most excellent nurse, this strange friend to Finola. A small cot had been moved next to the bed for her, and for weeks now, she had lived in this room, refusing to leave for more than a few moments at a time. She kept Finola impeccably groomed, her flaxen hair clean and shining, her bed immaculate.

“Pardon me, sir,” she said now, rising, “but if you'll be staying with her a bit, I'll just go down and prepare the medicine tray.”

Morgan watched her hurry from the room, then turned his attention back to Finola. He noted with satisfaction that her face, although still somewhat bruised, seemed to be healing nicely. Scrubbed of the excessive paint the women at Gemma's had taught her to use, she looked younger than before…and lovelier still. Her hands were folded atop the bed linen, her hair fanned out on the pillows. She appeared peaceful, and, although too thin by far, more fit than Morgan had seen her for weeks. Had it not been for the vacant stare and a certain slackness to her facial muscles, she would have looked to be enjoying a perfectly normal rest.

He had to knot his hands into fists to keep from reaching out to her, to smooth back the golden strand of hair that had fallen across her forehead. Instead, he sat, unmoving, speaking to her in soft, lulling tones. He spoke of the crisp, bright December day. He told her of Annie's having at last mastered a complete lesson in Latin. He promised they would attend a concert as soon as she was stronger. He told her that Small One was growing quite fat and lazy.

As he spoke, he lightly plucked the harp. When he could no longer think of anything to say, he went on playing. Slow, quiet ballads at first, then a happier, carefree children's tune. Finally, he began to sing, at first so softly the words played over the bed like water lapping across small stones in a riverbed.