Bonds of Earth (26 page)

The scrawled note ended with an address on the Upper West Side in lieu of a signature. Michael folded the note and stuffed it in his pants pocket, hoping Parrish would not notice his hands were shaking, though he imagined it was a futile wish.

“How is he?” he asked, forcing his gaze to meet Parrish’s.

Parrish softened. “His progress is slower, but he’s still improving. His temperament, however….” He rolled his eyes, and Michael couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Yes, I know all about his temperament,” Michael murmured, and damned if he didn’t hear a wistful tone creep into his voice. He felt his cheeks heat under Parrish’s gray-eyed scrutiny and looked away.

“He’ll be pleased to see you, my boy.” Michael jerked his head up, startled. “I hope you’ll go.”

Michael nodded, unwilling to refute Parrish’s assumption. He would go, but it would be for Sarah, no other reason. He had as much desire to see Seward as Seward doubtless did him.

“Good,” Parrish said, smiling up at him. “Oh, and”—Parrish reached into his pocket and produced a second envelope—“Merry Christmas, son.”

Michael frowned in consternation. “Doctor, you didn’t have to—”

“Oh, but I did. It’s a letter of acceptance to the New York Medical College, with credit for your first year at Trinity. Provided you start your studies within the next two years, mind you. If you take longer than that, they’ll insist you write entrance examinations and start again from the beginning.”

Michael stared at him, slack-mouthed. “Didn’t you say something about not pressing?” he asked weakly.

The old man smiled wickedly at him. Jabbing a finger at the ceiling, he said, “Don’t forget, I have my immortal soul to think of.” And with a final wink, he left Michael alone with his roiling, unsettled thoughts.

M
ICHAEL
arrived on the appointed day a half hour early, wanting to get the lay of the land before meeting Seward again. He was not surprised when the address turned out to be a posh three-story brownstone. From what he could glean through the windows, there didn’t seem to be a great deal of activity going on; in five minutes, he saw no one enter or leave the house. He was about to walk on and return later when the front door flew open and a head poked out.

“Well, don’t just stand there, come up!” it said imperiously. “You’re late enough as it is.”

Frowning, Michael began to climb the stairs. He pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time, then held it to his ear. Still ticking.

When he reached the top and the bright lights over the entrance, he could finally make out the other man’s features.

“Oh, it’s you!” van Eyck exclaimed, drawing back slightly to peer at him. “I’m sorry, I thought you were one of the hired help.”

“Don’t worry,” Michael drawled. “You’re not the first to make that mistake.”

“I suppose you’re here to see the show,” van Eyck said, rubbing at his triple chin.

“I’m early,” Michael interrupted. “I was planning to go for a short walk—”

“No, for heaven’s sake, no, it’s freezing out there!” van Eyck bubbled, stepping aside to allow him to enter. “You come right in and make yourself at home—oh, where to put you—ah, would he be angry, do you think, if you saw them before he got here? He can be so temperamental—but then, I imagine you’re quite familiar with….” He shrugged, then turned his head and yelled, “Randolph!”

Michael was still trying to sort out the question in that mishmash when a tall man in a gray suit, presumably Randolph, appeared. “Yes, sir.”

“This is Mr. McCready. He’s here for the show. Please take him to the conservatory.”

“Certainly, sir.” Randolph’s gaze swept over Michael, categorizing and filing him under
not worth the bother
.
“If the gentleman will follow me.”

Gritting his teeth—he had no choice but to go along unless he wanted to forgo seeing Sarah—Michael followed. The servant led him down a long hall and into a room made entirely of glass that seemed to take up the width of the house. The bright moonlight shone down upon the room, bare except for a collection of paintings perched on easels. The small electric lights that were hung above them were the only artificial illumination.

Michael did his best to avoid seeming impressed, but it was difficult. The effect was exactly the one he imagined van Eyck was hoping to achieve: dramatic yet simple, focusing one’s attention completely on the art.

It was then that he took a closer look at the nearest painting, and his heart lodged in his throat.

“Sir? Sir?”

Michael blinked, realizing Randolph had probably been trying to get his attention for some time. “Yes.”

“May I take your coat?”

Michael shook his head. “No. I don’t intend to stay long.” Judging by the sour face the servant made, he could tell this was the wrong answer, but he couldn’t be bothered to care.

“Then perhaps the package?”

What—oh. He’d almost forgotten the small parcel tucked under his arm, a Christmas present of artist’s supplies for Sarah. “No. No thank you.”

Randolph nodded stiffly. “Then may I leave you to your perusal of the artwork?”

“I wish you would,” Michael muttered, taking a halting step forward, then another. He didn’t notice when Randolph left, because his world had suddenly narrowed to the two-by-three-foot stretch of canvas in front of him.

It was Seward’s art, without a doubt. He’d seen this particular painting not long before he left. It was an abstract, like many of his more recent works, and full of a rage Michael could understand too well. He stared at it for an indeterminate stretch of time, then moved on as if in a daze to the next, and the next. Though none were quite as angry as the first, each one was bursting with emotion, practically bleeding it onto the expensive marble floor.

There were a few representational pieces scattered here and there, including the portrait of Abbott he’d seen in the attic, a stunningly accurate rendition of the sunset from the cliff near the cabin, and a new portrait of Sarah sprawled in a pile of dead leaves, her arms spread wide and her mouth open. The flame-colored leaves licked at the edges of her body, scorching her skirts, burning her splayed fingers. She seemed at once to be a modern martyr laughing at her immolation and a young girl reveling in the joy of living, and Michael was shaken and moved by Seward’s vision of her.

By the time he reached the last painting, he was trembling with the weight of the memories pressing upon him. It was as though Seward had taken his anguish, fury, and frustration at the futility of the war and exorcised it with each savage brush stroke. The emotions that Michael had sought to bury beneath indifference and a dogged pursuit of meaningless pleasure were here on display, naked and unashamed, a gruesome reminder for a world poised on the brink of amnesia.

Lest we forget,
Michael thought, his heart struggling to beat under the crushing pressure of all that he had seen, all that he had done and failed to do. Slowly, he shuffled toward the last canvas, one that stood apart from the others, bathed in its own solitary light.

The last painting was of him.

Unlike the portraits of the young Reilly, however, this rendering captured every flaw in his face as faithfully as a photograph. More faithfully, in fact, because to Michael it seemed as though every minute of his history had been distilled and transformed and made somehow strangely beautiful, as though the moments of his life were worth recording for future generations. As though everything that Michael had survived, everything he had become, was cherished. And all at once, the weight that burdened him was lifted away, because for the first time in his life, Michael realized that there was someone else who understood him, who wanted to know him, if he chose to allow it.

If I choose.
The thought was both terrifying and liberating, in a way nothing had ever been.

“What do you think?”

Michael turned slowly, as if in a dream, and faced him. He looked healthy, if a little tired; there was no sign of the old limp as he approached. “I think you’re a very great artist,” Michael said quietly, his hands clenching at his sides, aching to reach out.

Seward nodded toward the portrait. “Not very flattering, I know,” he murmured. “I was working from memory.”

It’s beautiful,
Michael wanted to say.
You’ve made me beautiful.
Aloud, he asked, “Where’s Sarah?”

“With Mary in the kitchen, being plied with hot chocolate. I asked her if I could speak to you first. She gave me five minutes, no more.” Seward shifted on his feet, and Michael looked him up and down, searching for signs that he might be in pain.

“Don’t worry,” Seward said without rancor. “I’ve been keeping up with my exercises.”

Michael shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t have any right.”

Seward smiled faintly. “You have the right, if you’d care to claim it.” As Michael digested this extraordinary statement, Seward added, “I had a hell of a time finding you; it took me well over a month. Castleton seemed to think you’d left town.”

“Castleton doesn’t know anything about me.”

“Yes, I gathered that eventually,” Seward said wryly. “I tried Parrish first, but he told me you had vanished from his sight as well.”

“I went back to the baths,” Michael said harshly.

Seward didn’t so much as flinch. “Yes, I know that, too,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I looked for you in every one I could find, but I had no luck.”

“I was back at the Saint Alex. Millie doesn’t like strangers.”

Seward actually chuckled at that. “Yes, I remember Millie. I think she believed I was a policeman at first, though she questioned me as if I were a murder suspect.”

Michael frowned. Millie hadn’t mentioned that part of the conversation. “Why did you allow her to?”

“I think I was too stunned to do anything else. I have to admit I wasn’t at my best when I came to see her, but in no time at all she had me quite turned around.”

“She’s exceedingly good at that,” Michael muttered.

Seward took a step forward. “She was also good at piquing my curiosity. You see, I was left with a certain… impression of you, and it wasn’t compatible with a person who could have such a fierce ally. I could almost believe Sarah could be deceived, and as for myself… well, that’s neither here nor there. However, Millie didn’t seem to be one to waste her faith on an unworthy object. Also, I began to wonder from whom she thought she was defending you, and so I asked her.”

“Asked her what?”

Seward took another step forward. “Asked her what I was to you,” he murmured, gaze unwavering and hypnotic. “Asked her if you’d ever spoken of me once in three months.”

Michael tried to look away but was caught, held, trapped. “What did she tell you?” he whispered.

Seward reached up with a trembling hand and cupped Michael’s jaw tenderly. “She told me I’d have to ask you myself but that I’d have to wait until you came to me. And I did my best to follow her advice, but Sarah forced my hand. She’s become quite the tyrant since you left, and it’s all your fault.”

“My fault?” Michael asked, arching a brow. “She learned tyranny at your knee, not mine.”

“Michael,” Seward growled, “I only have two minutes left before she pops up again.”

Michael closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Look at me,” Seward snapped, “and for once tell me the goddamned truth.”

Michael’s eyes flew open while his gut churned and his palms sweated and he could feel every one of Seward’s fingers against his skin. “No,” he rasped. “No, I’ve never spoken of you. Not even to Millie.” Seward took a stumbling step backward, his hand falling away. Michael took a deep breath and added, “But I’ve thought about you every day. Every day.”

Seward’s hands clenched into fists, as though he were restraining himself from leaping at Michael. “Why didn’t you come back?”

“Because it wouldn’t have changed anything. This is as impossible now as it was then. You’re not going to set up housekeeping with me at the country estate. You’d be out on your arse faster than—”

And then Seward started to chuckle, and Michael trailed off, staring at him as though he’d gone mad. “Why is that so damned funny?” he demanded.

When Seward could draw breath again, he answered, “Because I’m moving out in the new year. I bought the Abbotts a house in Hudson and set them up with a pension from my mother’s inheritance, and Sarah has a small trust, and with the little that’s left, I have just enough to rent a flat in the Village. It’s got three rooms and a bath and a huge wall of windows to let in the sun, and it’s absolutely freezing in the wintertime but I don’t give a damn, because it’s mine.” He closed the distance between them then, taking Michael’s hands in his and squeezing them. “It could be ours if you’d say the word.”

Michael sucked in a breath at the emotion revealed in those green eyes. “John,” he murmured, watching the fire in Seward’s gaze flare brightly at the sound of his name, “this can’t be what you want. I can’t be—what you want.”

“Why not?” John asked, leaning in to nuzzle Michael’s temple, brush his lips over Michael’s cheek and jaw.

“Because it doesn’t make any damned sense!” Michael cried, exasperated but somehow unable to pull away.

John pressed his mouth to Michael’s jugular, and Michael shuddered at the brief swipe of John’s tongue. “I believe we’re now down to under a minute. Do you suppose we could speed up the process?”

Michael shook his head, fear warring with hope. “I know that it’s common for patients to develop… inappropriate feelings for their therapists….”

He was abruptly cut off by the sound of John’s laughter. “For God’s sake,” Seward wheezed, “I believe that you and I were the worst therapist and patient in the history of medicine. Do you imagine I fell in love with you for your soothing bedside manner?”

“You—”

John threw up his hands in frustration. “I’m in love with you, you blasted idiot.”

“Oh,” Michael said softly, his mouth insisting on breaking into a foolish grin. Of their own accord, his hands came to rest on John’s hips. “I suppose I could have gathered that from the painting,” he murmured.