might hear him today.
His sister’s eyes went blank, and she began to rock back and forth, keening. That too fit the pattern of their visits—numbers, confusion, grief, then anger.
Still keening, Gwen lifted her hands toward the barred windows, which cast blue shadows over the floor. In the sunlight, the silvery scars on her wrists and palms stood out against her pale skin. There was a theory associating particular numbers with certain colors. So far there were no practical applications, but several recent papers from Lîvod University in Eastern Europe claimed to support the theory—
Without warning, Gwen launched herself at Síomón. They crashed against the wall and rolled over, he grappling for her wrists while she tore at his face with her fingernails, shrieking, “Síomón Síomón Síomón Síomón.”
The door banged open, and five attendants burst into the room. Four of them dragged Gwen away. The fifth helped Síomón to his feet, murmuring in concern, “You’ve taken a cut, sir.”
He dabbed at Síomón’s forehead with a cloth, but Síomón pushed the man’s hand away. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch. No need to trouble yourself about me.”
“It’s no trouble at all, sir.”
Meanwhile, Gwen shrieked and cursed and sobbed as the other attendants wrestled her into submission. Her pale blonde hair fell in snarls over her face, ugly red blotches stained her cheeks, and her mouth looked swollen. Síomón could not tell if one of the attendants had struck her, or if she had injured herself in the fight.
I was right here. I should have heard a slap.
Before Síomón could say anything, the four attendants bundled Gwen out the door. The remaining man gave one last dab to Síomón’s forehead before he too departed. Síomón drew a long breath. He flexed his hands, which ached as though he’d been clenching them.
“Mr. Madóc.”
Doctor Loisg stood in the doorway. Unlike the other doctors, he wore a plain tweed suit and not the white jacket they so often favored. His placid gaze took in Síomón’s bleeding forehead and rumpled clothes. “A difficult session,” he observed. “But not unexpected.”
“I should not have come. We were too optimistic.”
“Hardly too optimistic. Hopeful. Yes, we had a setback today, but I would urge you to continue your visits. Minz and Gerhardt speak of the soothing effect of familiar faces, and their latest research shows great promise.”
“Of course,” Síomón said, but his thoughts were still on Gwen. Had she sounded more desperate today? And, yet, she had remembered his name. That had to be a positive sign.
Still distracted by that possibility, Síomón only half listened as Loisg escorted him through the sanitarium’s broad and well-lit halls, speaking in general terms about Gwen’s condition. It was a familiar topic, this discourse on madness and obsession, and how a brilliant mind often shattered under unbearable pressure, only to seek refuge in that which had driven it mad.
For Gwen was mad, mad from too many numbers, and the damage appeared irreversible. However, they were trying kindness, as far as that went, and with Síomón’s permission, they employed some of the more exotic cures—combinations of music and drugs, the newest electrical therapy, and other techniques Síomón didn’t want to examine too closely. Loisg spoke of finding the root cause, as though Gwen were a complex number whose illness they could calculate.
They came at last to the staircase that wound down to the sanitarium’s foyer, a grand airy room decorated with opulent couches and rugs, and hung about with enormous paintings from masters in the previous century. Bowls of fresh-cut roses were placed about on marble stands, giving off a sweet scent. Several visitors clustered about the windows, waiting their own turn to speak with the doctors. Síomón recognized their look of painful expectation as he and Loisg came down the stairs. A lone man occupied a couch by
His sister’s eyes went blank, and she began to rock back and forth, keening. That too fit the pattern of their visits—numbers, confusion, grief, then anger.
Still keening, Gwen lifted her hands toward the barred windows, which cast blue shadows over the floor. In the sunlight, the silvery scars on her wrists and palms stood out against her pale skin. There was a theory associating particular numbers with certain colors. So far there were no practical applications, but several recent papers from Lîvod University in Eastern Europe claimed to support the theory—
Without warning, Gwen launched herself at Síomón. They crashed against the wall and rolled over, he grappling for her wrists while she tore at his face with her fingernails, shrieking, “Síomón Síomón Síomón Síomón.”
The door banged open, and five attendants burst into the room. Four of them dragged Gwen away. The fifth helped Síomón to his feet, murmuring in concern, “You’ve taken a cut, sir.”
He dabbed at Síomón’s forehead with a cloth, but Síomón pushed the man’s hand away. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch. No need to trouble yourself about me.”
“It’s no trouble at all, sir.”
Meanwhile, Gwen shrieked and cursed and sobbed as the other attendants wrestled her into submission. Her pale blonde hair fell in snarls over her face, ugly red blotches stained her cheeks, and her mouth looked swollen. Síomón could not tell if one of the attendants had struck her, or if she had injured herself in the fight.
I was right here. I should have heard a slap.
Before Síomón could say anything, the four attendants bundled Gwen out the door. The remaining man gave one last dab to Síomón’s forehead before he too departed. Síomón drew a long breath. He flexed his hands, which ached as though he’d been clenching them.
“Mr. Madóc.”
Doctor Loisg stood in the doorway. Unlike the other doctors, he wore a plain tweed suit and not the white jacket they so often favored. His placid gaze took in Síomón’s bleeding forehead and rumpled clothes. “A difficult session,” he observed. “But not unexpected.”
“I should not have come. We were too optimistic.”
“Hardly too optimistic. Hopeful. Yes, we had a setback today, but I would urge you to continue your visits. Minz and Gerhardt speak of the soothing effect of familiar faces, and their latest research shows great promise.”
“Of course,” Síomón said, but his thoughts were still on Gwen. Had she sounded more desperate today? And, yet, she had remembered his name. That had to be a positive sign.
Still distracted by that possibility, Síomón only half listened as Loisg escorted him through the sanitarium’s broad and well-lit halls, speaking in general terms about Gwen’s condition. It was a familiar topic, this discourse on madness and obsession, and how a brilliant mind often shattered under unbearable pressure, only to seek refuge in that which had driven it mad.
For Gwen was mad, mad from too many numbers, and the damage appeared irreversible. However, they were trying kindness, as far as that went, and with Síomón’s permission, they employed some of the more exotic cures—combinations of music and drugs, the newest electrical therapy, and other techniques Síomón didn’t want to examine too closely. Loisg spoke of finding the root cause, as though Gwen were a complex number whose illness they could calculate.
They came at last to the staircase that wound down to the sanitarium’s foyer, a grand airy room decorated with opulent couches and rugs, and hung about with enormous paintings from masters in the previous century. Bowls of fresh-cut roses were placed about on marble stands, giving off a sweet scent. Several visitors clustered about the windows, waiting their own turn to speak with the doctors. Síomón recognized their look of painful expectation as he and Loisg came down the stairs. A lone man occupied a couch by
Similar Books
