The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx (31 page)

“Adam, you didn’t
really
tell her that, did you?” he demanded, as his mentor nonchalantly stripped off topcoat and scarf and hung them in a closet behind his desk, donning a white lab coat.

“Why not? It’s basically true. I did talk about art being a valuable tool of psychiatry—that pictures often can give one valuable insights into a patient’s problems. Here, put this on,” he added, handing Peregrine a lab coat like his own. “You’ll look more like part of the medical team if you’re wearing the uniform.”

Still unconvinced, Peregrine put down his sketchbox and did as he was told. When he had hung up his coat beside Adam’s and settled the lab coat over his blazer, he turned uneasily to look at Adam again.

“She isn’t going to buy this.”

“I’ve told you, she already has.”

“I’ll bet
that
took some powerful persuasion,” Peregrine muttered.

Adam cocked his head, a flicker of some unreadable emotion registering briefly in his dark eyes.

“Your tone suggests that you think I might have used undue coercion to force Mrs. Talbot to agree. Is that what you meant to imply?”

Peregrine’s eyes went round behind his spectacles. “Well, I—”

“Sit down, Peregrine,” Adam said quietly. “I’m going to assume that your uncertainty springs from natural nervousness at having to perform in front of someone you’ve not met before. But in case there
is
any doubt, I want to tell you something about authority and responsibility.”

Peregrine obeyed, suddenly feeling like an errant schoolboy.

“We need to get something straight, before our relationship goes any farther,” Adam went on, sitting on the edge of the desk. “I’m not obliged to justify my actions to you, but I want you to understand what’s at stake here. You and I both know that Gillian can’t be cured unless the damage that was done can be set right. And we both know that
you
may well have something material to contribute to the cure we’re seeking. If Iris Talbot shared the knowledge that we have, she would agree to your participation without question. But she doesn’t have that knowledge, and we have neither the time nor the mandate to teach her. Do you agree?”

“Yes,” Peregrine whispered.

“So, what then?” Adam went on. “Which is of greater value: Iris Talbot’s freedom to choose—a choice made without knowledge—or Gillian’s life—a life already deeply endangered?”

Peregrine lowered his eyes to stare at his intertwined fingers.

“Well, Gillian’s life, obviously, but—”

“There is no
but
, in this instance,” Adam said quietly. “Listen to me carefully. When one is vested with authority, sooner or later one finds oneself obliged to exercise it in ways that one would prefer
not
to do, in order to achieve some greater good. Yes, I resorted to some powerful persuasion to convince Iris Talbot to agree to this experiment. I didn’t apply force, but I was prepared to do so; I played on her fears instead.

“This decision was not made lightly, because it
does
interfere with another’s free will. If I were to take such action for motives of personal gain, I should be unworthy to wield such powers and authority as are vested in me, and would speedily be relieved of my authority by Powers higher than my own. By the same token, it would be equally unworthy of me
not
to use the faculties at my command, in situations that warrant it. Part of the discernment required of those called as we are called is that we recognize those distinctions and be willing to abide by the consequences. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” Peregrine whispered.

“There’s more,” Adam went on. “Every act of significance involves a certain element of risk. Sometimes you must even dare to compromise what you see as your own integrity for the sake of someone else’s welfare. And then it becomes a matter of humility, not of pride. There is, believe me, no greater penance than being forced to sacrifice your own self-esteem. And no greater burden than to have to make that kind of judgment.”

Peregrine was looking at him more evenly now, his former apprehension transformed to enlightenment.

“That’s what Lady Julian was trying to tell me,” he murmured.
“‘The superior man discriminates between high and low.’”

“Precisely.” Adam nodded in grim confirmation. “You’re beginning to see. God willing, you’ll be able to act as well.”

Nodding, Peregrine squared his shoulders and picked up his sketchbox.

“I do see,” he agreed, “and I’m ready to
act
now—if you’ll still have me as a part of the team. Please forgive me if I sounded like a first-class prat!”

* * *

Gillian had been assigned a private room. When Adam and Peregrine arrived, they found Philippa standing just inside the door, going over Gillian’s chart with a nurse. Iris Talbot was there as well, arranging a large bouquet of flowers on the bedside utility cabinet with the air of someone determined to keep busy. She looked up somewhat apprehensively when Adam and Peregrine entered.

“Good morning, Mrs. Talbot,” Adam said, his voice conveying an easy, comfortable professionalism. “This is Mr. Lovat, the gentleman we spoke about yesterday. With your permission, he’ll be spending some time with you and your daughter in the course of the next few days.”

Iris stepped out from behind the bed and came forward, shyly extending a slim, small-boned hand. “How do you do, Mr. Lovat,” she said a little nervously. “You’re somehow younger than I expected. I must confess, I don’t pretend to understand what you’re about to attempt.”

Clasping the hand she offered, Peregrine was at once struck by the air of long-term fatigue and the blue shadows under her eyes, and compassion lent him inspiration and a resolution he had not been aware of a moment before.

“I’ll let you in on a little secret, Mrs. Talbot,” he said conspiratorially, lowering his voice as he pulled her slightly closer. “I don’t really understand it either. I’m simply thankful that sometimes it seems to work. I don’t blame you for being bewildered by it all.’

His boyish and slightly self-conscious grin as he released her hand utterly disarmed her apprehension, generating an unexpected smile that conveyed some of the charm that must have been hers before having to deal with Gillian’s illness.

“Why, Mr. Lovat. Whatever artistic abilities you may have, you do seem to have a knack for putting people at their ease,” she said. “I must thank you for agreeing to do this. Whatever assistance you’re able to provide, I’ll be ever so grateful. How do you plan to begin?”

Controlling a smile, Adam retreated to the doorway where he could pretend to look over Philippa’s shoulder at Gillian’s chart, as Peregrine set his sketchbox on a wheeled bedside table and opened its catches.

“I’ll warm up by making a few preliminary sketches,” the artist said. “After that—well, I’ll just have to wait and see what, if anything, comes to me. Nothing may even happen this first time—though I don’t expect that to be a problem.”

“Well, I suppose I ought to tidy Gillian’s hair, then,” Iris said confidingly, moving toward the head of the bed. “I only wish you could have seen her when she was herself. She used to be so lively and pretty—”

“She’s still a very pretty girl,” Peregrine assured her, laying out his supplies. “When all of this is over, perhaps you’ll allow me to do a proper portrait of her. Portraiture’s my real forte, as Sir Adam may have told you. Today’s work is hardly going to be typical of what I usually do.”

Crouching down beside the utility cabinet by Gillian’s bed, Iris pulled out a floral-print overnight satchel and rummaged briefly through its contents.

“That’s odd,” she said. “I can’t find Gillian’s hairbrush.”

“What’s that?” Philippa said, ears pricking up as she glanced up from the chart.

“Gillian’s hairbrush,” Iris said, still looking. “I always keep it in the bag with her other things, but now I don’t see it. No, it’s not in here. Now what do you suppose I might have done with it?”

Clucking maternally to herself, she peered first inside the cabinet, then under the bed. As Adam’s eyes followed her from the doorway, he became aware all at once of a faint warning tingle at the back of his neck. A side glance at Philippa confirmed that she too had her suspicions aroused by this apparently innocuous development.

“How very peculiar,” Iris said, getting up from her knees with the beginnings of a frown on her face. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think that hairbrush must have vanished into thin air. It certainly isn’t the sort of thing anyone would steal.”

“Maybe it slipped off the shelf into the wastebasket and got taken out by the cleaner by mistake,” Philippa suggested. “If you’ll pardon me, I’ll check with Matron and see if I can find out anything.”

“Oh, it isn’t worth making any fuss over,” Iris protested mildly, though Philippa had already disappeared. “After all, it’s only a hairbrush. If it doesn’t turn up, I can always get another out of the shop downstairs.”

“Well, we’ll see what we can find out,” Adam told her. “Meanwhile, I need to look in on some other of my patients. We’ll check back with you in an hour or so, and see how you’re getting on.”

Down at the nurses’ station, Philippa had already obtained basic information on the cleaner for the ward.

“Matron says her name is Mrs. Lewis—she couldn’t remember the first name,” she told Adam, as they headed for the lifts. “Apparently she’s only been here a few weeks. I don’t
think
I’m being paranoid, but I’m not sure I like the feel of this development.”

“Neither do I,” Adam said. “I believe I’ll put in a call to the hospital maintenance supervisor and see what he can tell us about this Mrs. Lewis. We’ll go back to my office.”

The information he received did nothing to reassure either of them.

“Mrs. Marjory Lewis has been an employee of this hospital for approximately two weeks,” Adam reported. “Her job application lists Edinburgh Royal Infirmary as her most recent place of previous employment. Interestingly enough, she went home sick about an hour ago. Care to speculate?”

Philippa snorted, her patrician face scowling at this revelation.

“How much would you like to bet that there isn’t any Marjory Lewis listed among the former employees of ERI? Or if there is, it isn’t the same woman as the one who’s been working here.”

“No bets,” Adam said, “I wonder if Peregrine will make anything out of this . . .”

* * *

After Adam and Philippa had gone, Peregrine took one of the two visitors’ chairs in the room and positioned it at the foot of Gillian’s bed, rolling the table with his supplies closer beside it. Gillian Talbot
was
still a pretty girl, but not the rosy-cheeked child he had first seen in the vision given him by Michael Scot a month before. It grieved him to see her the way she was now, lying there so quietly, scarcely breathing, her face lifeless and pale. Whatever her connections with the legendary past, he saw her now only as an innocent victim of present-day criminal ambition. That realization made him appreciate Adam’s determination to do whatever was necessary to see her sound and whole again.

Reminded of his assignment, he sat down and balanced his sketchbook on one upraised knee, selecting a favorite pencil from his sketchbox.

Now then,
he thought to himself,
let’s see what we can see.

Iris had pulled her chair over by the window, out of his line of sight. Even so, Peregrine was aware that she was watching him closely, half-afraid, half-expectant. He made a few trial passes over the paper to limber up his wrist and hand, then began to sketch the literal scene before him. As the lines began to flow more fluidly, very similar to that first sketch he had made of Gillian in another hospital bed, he cast his mind back to images of Melrose Abbey and the rack of dry bones that once had housed the living spirit of Michael Scot, imploring that same Scot to reveal what he wanted of Peregrine Lovat.

His vision blurred, as if someone had drawn a veil of, fine silk across his eyes. Attuned to the now-familiar shift in his temporal perspective, he drew another deep breath and waited for his spirit-sight to key in. The fog before his eyes dissolved. He blinked, then found his focus on another level of perception.

His first reaction was surprise, for the scene before him was apparently unchanged. Gillian Talbot lay supine before him in her bed, her eyes closed, her breathing light and shallow. But something, Peregrine realized, was subtly different. He narrowed his eyes and took a closer look.

In the same instant, a ghostly flicker of movement diverted his attention to his left. Shifting his gaze, he found himself registering a dual image of the door, one solid, the other semi-transparent, like a photographic negative superimposed over a finished print. As Peregrine studied the double-image, the transparency shifted into motion like a filmstrip. Focusing on the active image, he saw the door swing open, admitting a sandy-haired, bespectacled woman in a cleaner’s coverall.

She bustled in and looked around. A look of crafty satisfaction crossed her face. By the light, it was morning, but Mrs. Talbot had not yet arrived. Closing the door behind her, the woman hurried over to Gillian’s bedside and began to poke around, obviously searching for something. Without shifting his gaze, Peregrine flipped to a fresh sheet of paper and began rapidly sketching his impression of her face.

The woman peered first into the bedside wastebasket, then opened the door to the bedside cabinet and rummaged about inside, emerging a moment later with a hairbrush clutched in one hand. Even as the object registered, she thrust the hairbrush out of sight under her coverall and, with a last furtive backwards glance, beat a hasty retreat from the room.

Peregrine was sketching furiously when he realized that the scene had shifted again. Gillian still lay motionless on the bed, but now a grey-haired man in a white coat like Peregrine himself wore was bending over her right arm with a hypodermic syringe. At first he feared that the man was injecting Gillian with some unknown drug, but—no, blood was slowly filling the syringe. The man must be a lab technician, drawing blood for further tests.