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her squarely. “Will you keep him?”
    She could see he wanted reassurance that she shared his sense of responsibility for Covenant and Joan. She could not make such a promise. But she could offer him something similar. “Well, at any rate,” she said severely, “I won’t let go of him.”
    He nodded vaguely. He was no longer looking at her. As he moved toward the door, he murmured, “Be patient with him. It’s been so long since he met somebody who isn’t afraid of him, he doesn’t know what to do about it. When he wakes up, make him eat something.” Then he left the house, went out to his car.
    Linden watched until he disappeared in dust toward the highway. Then she turned back to the living room.
    What to do about it? Like Covenant, she did not know. But she meant to find out. The smell of blood made her feel unclean; but she suppressed the sensation long enough to fix a breakfast for herself. Then she tackled the living room.
    With a scrub brush and a bucket of soapy water, she attacked the stains as if they were an affront to her. Deep within her, where her guilt and coercion had their roots, she felt that blood was life—a thing of value, too precious to be squandered and denied, as her parents had squandered and denied it. Grimly she scrubbed at the madness or malice which had violated this room, trying to eradicate it.
    Whenever she needed a break, she went quietly to look at Covenant. His bruises gave his face a misshapen look. His sleep seemed agitated, but he showed no sign of drifting into coma. Occasionally, the movements of his eyes betrayed that he was dreaming. He slept with his mouth open like a silent cry; and once his cheeks were wet with tears. Her heart went out to him as he lay stretched there, disconsolate and vulnerable. He had so little respect for his own mortality.
    Shortly after noon, while she was still at work, he came out of his bedroom. He moved groggily, his gait blurred with sleep. He peered at her across the room as if he were summoning anger; but his voice held nothing except resignation. “You can’t help her now. You might as well go home.”
    She stood up to face him. “I want to help you.”
    â€œI can handle it.”
    Linden swallowed bile, tried not to sound acerbic. “Somehow you don’t look that tough. You couldn’t stop them from taking her. How are you going to make them give her back?”
    His eyes widened; her guess had struck home. But he did not waver. He seemed almost inhumanly calm—or doomed. “They don’t want her. She’s just a way for them to get at me.”
    â€œYou?” Was he paranoiac after all? “Are you trying to tell me that this whole thing happened to her because of you? Why?”
    â€œI haven’t found that out yet.”
    â€œNo. I mean, why do you think this has anything to do with you? If they wanted you, why didn’t they just take you? You couldn’t have stopped them.”
    â€œBecause it has to be voluntary.” His voice had the flat timbre of over-stressed cable in a high wind. He should have snapped long ago. But he did not sound like a man who snapped. “He can’t just force me. I have to choose to do it. Joan—” A surge of darkness occluded his eyes. “She’s just his way of exerting pressure. He has to take the chance that I might refuse.”
    He
. Linden’s breathing came heavily. “You keep saying
he
. Who is
he
?”
    His frown made his face seem even more malformed. “Leave it alone.” He was trying to warn her. “You don’t believe in possession. How can I make you believe in possessors?”
    She took his warning, but not in the way he intended. Hints of purpose—half guesswork, half determination—unexpectedly lit her thoughts. A way to learn the truth. He had said,
You’re going to have to find some way to do it behind my back
. Well, by God, if that