“That’s all I can ask.”
“Is it?” His voice dropped. “Is that all you can ask?”
“Perhaps not. But it is all that I will for now.”
His long shadow stretched over her, falling across her face—the downcast eye, the slightly lowered chin, the broken look of loss. She rose. Shadow met the man, and I saw him approach her, stop; with his back to me, he obliterated her from my sight.
“Are you prepared, Muriel? They may not be able to save him.”
“I have been prepared since Rat Portage. I do not say ‘since he came back,’ because he never came back, Pellinore. John never came back.”
She fell into him. He rocked back on his heels, not expecting it, and his long arms enfolded her instinctively. He looked down at her. He could see her upturned face, of course; I could not—and wished that I could.
“Where is he?” she asked. “Where is John?”
“Muriel, you know I—”
“Oh, I do. I know exactly what you’re going to say. You’re going to say I’m being hysterical, that I’m a hysterical female and I shouldn’t worry my pretty little head, that I should let the strong and capable man take care of things. You’re going to tell me there is a perfectly rational, scientific explanation for why my husband has become a monster.”
“Your husband is suffering from a well-documented form of psychosis, Muriel, named for the mythical creature he was foolish enough to go hunting after. It has been exacerbated by physical hardship and deprivation—perhaps even torture—”
She pulled from his arms, straightened her hat, and said with a laugh, “See? I knew you would say that. You’re so damned predictable that I wonder how I ever thought I loved you.”
“Millions love the sun. The sun is predictable.”
“Was that an attempt at humor?”
“I was merely being logical.”
“You should take care with that, Pellinore. Your logic may kill someone one day.”
She was pressed between the divan and Warthrop. As she stepped to one side to make her escape, he shifted with her, blocking the way.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Acting unpredictably.”
She laughed nervously. “I can think of only one other time when you did that.”
“John accuses me of putting on a show. That I jumped in order to be rescued.”
“Still, it surprised me. I was shocked when I heard the news.”
“Which part? My jumping or his saving me?”
“I never understood why, Pellinore.”
“We share in that, Muriel. I still don’t understand why.”
He stepped to one side, and I could see her again. Though her exit had been unblocked, she remained.
“Should I leave?” she asked. I could not tell if she was asking him—or herself. She was looking toward the door as if it stood at the end of a thousand-mile journey.
“It probably would be best,” he answered softly.
“It’s something you would do,” she said with a note of wistfulness. “Entirely predictable.”
“And perfectly logical.”
I missed who moved first. Whether a trick of the light or the result of my poisoned anatomy, it seemed that neither moved first; their hands did not touch . . . and then their hands touched. She remained half-turned toward the door, Warthrop half-turned toward the window opposite, and her hand lightly brushed the back of his.
“I hate you, Pellinore Warthrop,” she said without looking at him. “You are selfish. And you are vain. Even rescuing him was an act of vanity. He was . . . is twice the man you are. He risked his life because he loved you. You risked yours merely to prove him wrong.”
The doctor did not respond. He stood ramrod straight, head slightly bowed, in an attitude of prayer.
“I pray every night that there is a God—that there is judgment for our sins,” she went on in a level voice, now running her fingers, feather light, up and down his arm. “So you might spend an eternity in the deepest pit of hell with all the other betrayers.”
“Whom did I betray?” he wondered aloud. He did not sound angry, only curious. “I brought him out.”
Her hand fell away. He stiffened as if the loss of her touch were a blow.
“You sent him there. If not for you, he never would have gone.”
“That’s ridiculous. I didn’t even know about it until you told me—”
“He always knew there would be a reckoning. He wouldn’t admit it to himself—he was not an introspective man like you—but in his heart he knew there would be a price and that he would be the one to pay it.”
“A price, you say. A price for what?”
“For love. For you loving me and—” Her voice faltered. “And for my loving you.”
“But you hate me. You just said so.”
She laughed. “Oh, Pellinore. How can a man so intelligent be so utterly dense? Why is John Chanler my husband?”
He did not answer. She moved closer; he still would not look at her.
“John knew the answer to that question,” she said. “And John is not half as bright as you.”
“I can think of a better question. Why are you his wife?”
She struck him across the cheek. He received it with more stoicism than he had when she’d withdrawn her touch. He barely moved.
“I wish you had died there,” she said matter-of-factly.
“You nearly got your wish.”
“Not in Canada. In Vienna. If you had died in Vienna, I could have played the grieving fiancée and prostrated myself upon your premature grave. John would now be happily married to some bird-witted New York socialite, and I would have fallen in love again. I would not be in this hell of loving a man whom I despise, for as long as you walk this earth, I shall love you, Pellinore. As long as you draw breath anywhere—here or ten thousands miles from here—I will love you. I can’t help loving you, so I choose to hate you . . . to make my love bearable.”
“You—You should not—Muriel, there are certain things we should never . . .” For the first time in my memory, the monstrumologist struggled for words. “You should not tell me these things.”
“No, I want you to hear them. I want you to know I still love you. I want you to think about it for the rest of your pitiable life. You abandoned me for a cold and heartless mistress, and on the day Will Henry finally leaves you for good, I want you to think about it, and each day thereafter until you are old and dying alone on your deathbed, until the debt is repaid, unto the final reparation for your cruelty.”