Nora Roberts - The Stars of Mithra - Hidden Star

“They’re arguing about them. About it,” she continued, squeezing her eyes shut to try to bring it back. “I can hear them, and I’m angry and feeling righteous. I can almost see myself marching toward that room where they’re arguing, and I’m furious and satisfied. It’s such an odd combination of feelings. And I’m afraid, a little. I’ve done something… I don’t know.”

She strained toward it, fisting her hands. “Something rash or impulsive, or even foolish. I go to the door. It’s open, and their voices echo outside. I go to the door, and I’m trembling inside. It’s not all fear, I don’t think it’s just fear. Some of it’s temper. I close my hand over the stone. It’s in my pocket, and I feel better with my hand on it. The canvas bag’s there, on the table by the door. It’s open, too, and I can see the money inside. I pick it up while they shout at each other.”

The lights as they slipped from suburb to city made her eyes water. She closed them again. “They don’t know I’m there. They’re so intent on each other, they don’t notice me. Then I see the knife in his hand, the curved blade gleaming. And the other one throws up his hands to grab it. They struggle over it, and they’re out of the light now, struggling. But I see blood, and one of the shadows staggers. The other moves in. He doesn’t stop. Just doesn’t stop. I’m frozen there, clutching the bag, watching. The lights go off, all at once, and it’s totally dark. Then the lightning flashes, fills the sky. It’s suddenly so bright. When he slices the knife again, over his throat, he sees me. He sees me, and I run.”

“Okay, try to relax.” The traffic was murder, choked and impatient. He couldn’t take her hand, draw her close, comfort her. “Don’t push it now, Bailey. We’ll deal with this at home.”

“Cade, they’re the same person,” she murmured, and let out a sound somewhere between a moan and a laugh. “They’re the same.”

He cursed the clogged streets, hunted for an opening and shot around a station wagon with inches to spare. “The same as what?”

“Each other. They’re the same person. But that can’t be. I know that can’t be, because one’s dead and one isn’t. I’m afraid I’m going crazy.”

Symbols again, he wondered, or truth? “How are they the same?”

“They have the same face.”

She carried the stuffed elephant into the house, clutching it to her as if it were a lifeline to reality. Her mind felt musty, caught between dreams, with a sly headache hovering at the corners waiting to pounce.

“I want you to lie down. I’ll make you some tea.”

“No, I’ll make it. I’ll feel better if I’m doing something. Anything. I’m sorry. It was such a wonderful evening.” In the kitchen, she set the smiling elephant on the table. “Until.”

“It was a wonderful evening. And whatever helps jiggle more pieces in place is worth it. It hurts you.” He took her shoulders. “And I’m sorry, but you have to get through the rest of it to get where we want to be.”

“I know.” She lifted a hand to his, squeezed briefly, then turned to put the kettle on the stove. “I’m not going to fall apart, Cade, but I’m afraid I may not be stable.” Pressing her fingers to her eyes, she laughed. “Funny statement coming from someone who can’t remember her own name.”

“You’re remembering more all the time, Bailey. And you’re the most stable woman I’ve ever met.”

“Then I’m worried about you, too, and your choice of women.”

She set cups precisely on their saucers, concentrating on the simple task. Tea bags, spoons, sugar bowl.

In the maple tree, the wood thrush had given over to a whippoorwill, and the song was like liquid silver. She thought of honeysuckle burying a chain-link fence, perfuming the evening air while the night bird called for his mate.

And a young girl weeping under a willow tree.

She shook herself. A childhood memory, perhaps, bittersweet. She thought those vignettes of the past would be coming more quickly now. And she was afraid.

“You have questions.” She set the tea on the table, steadied herself and looked at him. “You’re not asking them because you’re afraid I’ll crumble. But I won’t. I wish you’d ask them, Cade. It’s easier when you do.”

“Let’s sit down.” He pulled out a chair for her, took his time stirring sugar into his tea. “The room has gray carpet, a window, a table by the door. There’s a desk lamp. What does the desk look like?”

“It’s a satinwood library desk, George III.” She set her cup back down with a rattle. “Oh, that was clever. I never expected you to ask about the desk, so I didn’t think, and it was just there.”

“Concentrate on the desk, Bailey. Describe it for me.”

“It’s a beautiful piece. The top is crossbanded with rosewood that’s inlaid with boxwood lines. The sides, even the kneehole, are inlaid with ovals. One side has a long drawer paneled with false fronts. It opens to shelves. It’s so clever. The handles are brass, and they’re kept well polished.”

Baffled, she stared into her tea. “Now I sound like an antique dealer.”

No, he thought, just someone who loves beautiful things. And knows that desk very well.

“What’s on the desk?”

“The lamp. It’s brass, too, with a green glass shade and an old-fashioned chain pull. And there are papers, a neat stack of papers aligned with the corner of the desk. A leather blotter is in the center, and a briefke sits there.”

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.