Secret of the Wolf (14 page)

She liked him, and wanted him to like her
.

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It had never been vital, in the past, that a patient should like her. Indeed, such

expectations were detrimental to treatment; her own feelings were quite unimportant.

Quentin's appreciative behavior might not even survive what she had in mind for him.

He might hate her in the end, if she made him relive what he wished to forget
.

Better that he should hate her than the rest of the world
.

"I believe that your insight will help our work together," she said, recovering herself. "I

planned to begin this morning, if you feel ready.”

He shrugged. "Why not? I am rather curious.”

"It's no subject for levity," she said. "The treatment may not always be pleasant.”

"Thank you for the warning." He caught her gaze. "And for your honesty, Johanna.”

She backed away. "I shall take in my father's breakfast, and make sure the others are

settled. Shall we meet in my office in one hour?”

"I'll count the minutes." At first she thought he was going to take her hand and kiss it as

he had Mrs. Daugherty's, but he only gave her a shallow bow and turned for his room
.

Well, then. It was all proceeding as smoothly as she could hope. Her judgment had

proved sound. She had matters—and her own emotions—under firm control
.

She took the tray to her father, and readied her mind for the battle ahead
.

If ever Quentin had doubted his cowardice, he was absolutely sure of it now
.

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He waited for Johanna in her office, perched on the edge of the faded chaise longue

that sat across from her desk. He could see a little of the view outside the window

opposite; he had a very strong desire to climb through that window
.

Instead, he got up and paced a nervous circle about the room, ending at her desk. The

polished oak surface was spotless, dust-free, and neatly laid out with a minimum of

clutter: a stack of papers or notes, an inkstand and pen, a metronome, a pair of medical

books taken from the alphabetized rows in the shelf against the nearest wall

and a

small vase of wildflowers, similar to those May had brought him at breakfast
.

The desk was like the woman herself: orderly, pragmatic, its seeming severity

moderated by the homely beauty of a handful of flowers
.

Quentin was tempted to upset the perfect balance of the desk: scatter a few papers out

of order, or stick a wildflower stem in the inkwell. Just as he had been tempted, more

than once, to loosen the tightly bound strands of Johanna's light brown hair
.

It wasn't too late to do something just outrageous enough to make her toss him out on

his ear, reject him as a patient. He didn't have to go through with this. If Johanna's

hypnosis was what she claimed, he wasn't going to be able to hide himself. Not any part

or portion
.

He sat at Johanna's desk and picked up her pen. The scent of her hands lingered in the

glossy wood of the handle. He drew it slowly along his upper lip, thinking through what

he'd already debated with himself a hundred times or more
.

He was crazy, as crazy as any of the other residents of the Haven
.

Because he trusted Johanna. He trusted her to help him, she alone of all men or women

in the world. He trusted her not only with his uncertain memories, but with the one fact

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she surely could not accept—she with her logical mind. What would she do with that

secret, once she received it into her keeping?

She thought she could cure him of dipsomania. He hadn't told her the rest, the thing he

feared, the shadow he never saw except in nightmares and cloudy recollections of

conflict and violence. He wasn't even sure it existed except in his imagination
.

If it did exist, Johanna would discover it
.

The pen snapped between his fingers, driving a splinter into his thumb. He watched a

tiny bead of blood well up from the wound. In a few minutes no one would be able to

see that the flesh had been broken
.

Would he be dead by now, if not for the healing power of his body? Lying in some alley,

perhaps, poisoned by alcohol or murdered by cutthroats?

The point was moot. His flesh, his bones, his organs—they all mended in time, barring a

fatal stroke to the heart, spine, or brain. Only his mind didn't heal. He understood his

mind least of all
.

His elder brother, Braden, Earl of Greyburn, had once told him that he'd wasted a good

mind in the pursuit of pleasure and frivolity. Braden didn't know about the Punjab, or the

shadow that followed Quentin, haunting him from the corner of his vision. The shadow

had gone away while he'd lived a fast life in England, unable to match the frantic pace

Quentin set. It had returned five years ago, at the Convocation, and ended the life

Braden had so disparaged
.

I ran out on you, brother—on you and Rowena. I had to. What would you think to see

me now?

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He glanced at his hand again. The skin was almost smooth where the splinter had

pierced it. Yes, his flesh had mended, but what of Johanna's pen? Wasn't it a metaphor

for what she was—sound enough in average hands, but so easily broken in the wrong

ones

"I see that you are ready to begin.”

Johanna stepped into the room, her arms full of books. Quentin jumped up and took

them from her, setting them down on the desk
.

"I must apologize," he said. "I fear I broke your pen. I'll replace it, of course.”

She glanced at the broken pen and then at his face. "It doesn't matter. The pen was of

no great value, and I have others." She began to replace the books in their proper slots

on the shelf. "Would you please close the door? We shall not be disturbed for the next

two hours.”

Quentin shut the door and leaned against it. "The other patients?”

"Each has his or her own schedule of chores and rest periods, and we generally have

our exercise in the late afternoon, before dinner.”

"All very

systematic.”

She turned to him, propping her arms on the desk. "I find it works best with the mentally

afflicted. Order is soothing to the troubled mind.”

And to yours, Quentin thought. At the moment, he'd gladly take a little of that soothing

himself. He left the safety of the door as if he were walking into the mouth of hell. "How

does one go about this hypnosis? Does it involve the laying on of hands?”

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"No touching is necessary. It is not mesmerism, with the making of passes over the

body.”

"A pity." His hands dangled like useless things at his sides, and his mouth was cotton-

dry. "What do you want me to do?”

"I have found that a subject is in the most receptive state when fully relaxed," she said,

drawing the drapes at the window. The room dimmed to twilight. "Please make yourself

comfortable on the chaise longue.”

Quentin sat down, hesitated, and swung his legs along the length of the chaise.

Johanna pulled her chair from behind her desk and set it a few feet away from the foot

of the chaise
.

"I will briefly explain what we are about to do." She sat in the chair as straight-backed as

the most rigorous arbiter of propriety, hands folded in her lap. "The man who first

recognized the science of hypnosis was a Scottish physician by the name of Braid, who

wrote that the hypnotic trance, into which I am about to induct you, is the result of a

mental state of concentration in which all external distractions are excluded. In this

state, the mind is receptive to ideas, even memories, that are ignored or forgotten by

the conscious mind. As I explained once before, my father learned that it is possible

under these conditions for the physician to introduce corrective thoughts and

suggestions the mind would not routinely accept." She drew in a deep breath and

clasped her hands. "I shall guide you into that state with the use of specific techniques.”

It sounded a trifle too much like the sort of thing Braden had been known to do with the

servants at Greybum, the Forsters' ancestral estate in Northumberland. But that was no

"science of hypnosis," not something an ordinary human could manage. A man like

Braden could overcome the very will of another, force him to forget rather than

remember—a werewolf skill Quentin had lost somewhere along the way
.

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"Hypnosis also requires a kind of partnership between the doctor and the patient,"

Johanna said. "There is nothing to fear in it.”

"Do you mean that you can't order me to do something against my will?" Quentin asked

lightly. "Perform Hamlet's soliloquy while standing on my head?”

She smiled. "That is correct, as far as I have observed. That is why you must wish to be

helped. Not all can be hypnotized. But your ability to go into a spontaneous trance, as

you did yesterday, is an excellent sign." Her smile faded. "If you trust me. You must

trust me, and give yourself into my hands. Can you do that, Quentin?”

Wasn't that what he'd been asking himself all along?

He met her gaze, all levity gone from his voice and his thoughts. "Yes, Johanna. I

believe I can.”

She blinked, as if taken aback by his sincerity, and he let himself become just a little

intoxicated by the remarkable clarity of her eyes. Like a quiet ocean, they were—never

troubled by more than the gentlest of waves. How would a man go about awakening

their first real storm?

Surely it wasn't his imagination that she looked back at him with the same expectant

wonder

"Very well, then," she said. "Have you any further questions?”

"What is your battle strategy, Johanna?”

"I beg your pardon?”

"Your plan to fight my demons of dipsomania.”

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"It is quite simple. Once I have put you into a hypnotic state, when your mind is open, I

shall ask you a few basic questions to determine the depth of your trance. If that is

sufficient, I shall ask you more specific questions that have a greater bearing on your

condition.”

"Such as what drives me to drink. Can't you ask me that without my being in a trance?”

"A part of your mind is in hiding, Quentin," she said slowly. "It protects you from those

things you do not want to see

or remember.”

Quentin gripped the sides of the chaise as if it were a flimsy raft floating in the midst of a

sea of hungry sharks. "Perhaps there's a good reason I don't remember.”

She gazed at him earnestly, the passion bright in her face. "Can the reason be good if it

causes you pain and suffering? If it drives you to risk your life? No." She shook her

head. "There is still so much we do not comprehend about the mind, and how the brain

and body work together. But I believe that much insanity is created by a kind of

separation from one's own true self. If we could only make the self whole again, insanity

would be cured. If a man can see himself clearly in the mirror of his own mind, and

accept what he sees, he is free.”

She spoke with such conviction, such utter certainty. "You'll

plunder my memory like

an archeologist digging for ancient pot shards," he said with a laugh. "I hope my brain is

filled with more than earth and fragments of crockery.”

She didn't return his smile. "It contains more than you or I or anyone could ever know.

But it may reveal, under hypnosis, what it cannot do when you are fully conscious.”

Surely she couldn't perceive the depth of his fear, or hear the drumming of his heart? A

woman of her strength would find little to admire in a coward, a man without the courage

to overcome his weaknesses—no matter how tolerant she was of the truly mad
.

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Quentin widened his eyes in an absurd pantomime of terror. "You'll know all my

secrets," he whispered. "I shall be overcome with chagrin.”

"As your doctor, I would never reveal what I learn to anyone. I shall be honest with you,

always." She paused and looked down at her hands. "The choice must be yours. I might

simply attempt to convince your mind that you have no need for drink, and go no further.