MY HEART IN STONE

 PART FIFTEEN:

(NOTE TO READER: I've been using the heart bar to separate the segments written by

Sharon and by me into authored sections, but we are now entering into a more rapid

interchange between characters and in those places, the bars are more of an annoyance.

So as you read the conversations below, Rachel is written by Sharon; Cort and Henri by me.)

There was an attempt to get up at five thirty Sunday morning to get dressed in time to go to early services at the cathedral, something Rachel had been looking forward to describing to Cort when she talked with him next.  But the alarm went off and instead of sliding out of bed, Rachel fumbled one arm out from under the covers and slapped the snooze button…five more minutes of sliding back into a dream where she and Cort were…doing something…there went the damn alarm again! 

So she never made it to the service and just barely made it up the hill in time to find Gerta looking pale and Mikol on his way down to find her.  The cook had been ordered to town to re-supply the kitchen and had left before preparing Mikol’s breakfast – so tempers were a little frayed even by the time she arrived.  Gerta, once again, was fairly wordless about the event, except to break the bad news that until the cook returned, “Veronica” would be in charge of the kitchen.

And her sleepy brain had been perfectly ready to deal with that, her mind on all the pots in neat little rows and how hard would it be to throw together a meal at the last minute?  She’d done it for her father plenty of times….

But no!  The cook was a vengeful man, vengeful for the task of cooking and cleaning without assistance, and the piles of dishes next to the sink attested to his lack of enthusiasm for staying in the kitchen any longer than he had to.

“Why didn’t he just say ‘he needs the dishes cleaned?’”  Rachel asked of Gerta as they both surveyed the mess.  It was not an extensive mess, but the last thing Rachel relished was being elbow deep in suds and the front of her dress soaked.  “He made it sound like I was going to merely baby-sit the place until Rollo got back.  Look at this!  How did this come about, when it was so spotless the other day?”

Gerta shrugged.  “Rollo is not always consistent, but Mikol prizes his cooking.  He gets away with a lot of things because of it.  Personally,” Gerta added, “I think it’s a sign Rollo likes you.  He did this to Katryn all the time.”

“I feel so loved,” Rachel growled, stopping in front of the dirtiest stack, remnants of food dried along the rims and burned splotches of spilled grease and liquid on the bottoms of the pans.  “Did Katryn ever pay Rollo back when he did this to her?”

Gerta’s mouth took a prim line and her eyes rolled.

“They had their secrets, I had mine,” she said, matter of fact.

“Don’t…!  Don’t elaborate.  I don’t want to know,” Rachel hurried to cut her off.  “Okay, I’ll do this until he gets back, but I want a change of uniforms.  Do you have an extra dress I can use?”

Gerta nodded and left to retrieve one.  Rachel leaned against the preparation counter and fought the urge to toss a pot or two in frustration and anger.  Her fingers played with her apron pocket’s edge.  Pocket.  Yesterday.  Coal.  Pressure.  Diamond.

Cort.

This is a good thing, she reminded herself; took a deep breath and plunged into the culinary wastes with a grim determination.

Cort had awakened with the thought of green in his mind.  After he dressed, he stood a moment staring into the small mirror in the bathroom. Green? Why was he almost haunted by green?  It wasn't a color he'd been around all that much in his life. Brown, tan...those were more the colors of his world. When there was something green, it really caught your eye.  What had he seen that was green enough that his mind struggled to regain some connection to it?  He walked to the small window, looking out over the Czech forests.  Plenty of green here.  He didn't think it was merely trees, though, this green that floated half-seen through his memory. There was something green that had been...where? When? He closed his eyes, blocking out the endless forest green, trying to let the more elusive version surface. He could almost see it. Almost. It flowed, moved like...like...cloth in the wind.  Was it something his Grandmother had hung on the line to dry? Was that it? He remembered being quite little and running through her laundry, his hands out, feeling the sheets, the aprons, the tablecloth brushing his fingers. He smiled, remembering. Was that it? This memory of green made him feel taken care of somehow, like someone was there for him, watching over him.  Surely, then, it must be something that had belonged to his grandmother?

He swallowed hard, turning away from the window.  He still missed her, missed the peace, the sense of belonging she'd given to his first 14 years of life. Sighing, he murmured, "Can't really expect to have that twice in a lifetime, Cortland Wells.  Not twice."

She was one of the things that made this whole concept of his being some character in a movie so hard for him to understand. She had not been in The Quick and the Dead.  There had not been one reference to her, not a single intimation that she even existed.  Yet...there she was...as big as life, as real as anything could ever be real for him and he remembered everything about her, the scent of her, the sound of her voice as she hummed him to sleep, the soft feel of her as he leaned his cheek against her while sitting in her lap in her rocker by the fireplace. Peaches. That's what she'd called him when he was tiny. She said it was because his face glowed warm and rosy like a ripe peach.  She'd lived in Georgia as a girl and knew all about peaches. She'd say, "Come to Granny, Peaches." And he would run to her, thinking she was saying "Come to Granny Peaches."  So that's what he'd called her.  Granny Peaches. 

He'd been so lost in thought he hadn't heard Henri slide open the door. "Cort," the doctor called softly to get his attention.

"Oh, good morning, Doctor," Cort responded, carefully tying up the package of his childhood memories and settling it back in its proper corner of his mind.

"Might as well come with me to the keep," Henri continued. "Cook's not here and breakfast is a bit iffy today."

Together they crossed the courtyard and had just gotten to the main floor of the large building when Henri heard the phone ringing in his office. "Wait in the living room.  I'll be right back."

Cort wandered into the large room, walking  slowly around, looking at the various artwork, pausing by an obviously very old painting of Kamen itself.

He was studying it when Henri hurried in saying, "This is going to take me a while. Why don't you go on down to the kitchen yourself?  I'm sure someone is there who can help you.  If not, just grab what you like.  All right? I'll be down after while."

He pointed Cort to the stairs and strode quickly back to his office, closing the door behind himself.

Cort shrugged.  The kitchen, eh?  Well, he'd not seen that part of the castle yet.  What DID a castle kitchen look like anyway?  He made his way toward the smaller stairwell down the hall and began to descend.  The steps were stone, well-worn with many feet over the course of many years.  He kind of liked that about them and wondered about all the people who'd gone up and down between the kitchen and the dining room.  The kitchen itself was very large, a huge fireplace taking up most of one wall.  He figured that had played a major role in the activities down here once upon a time.  There was a large wooden table in the middle, its surface dented and scarred with use.  A loaf of bread sat on a small cutting board near one end of it, a knife lying nearby.  He bent, giving it a big sniff.  Mmmmmm!  Smelled good.  He carved off a large chunk from one end.  Marmalade, he thought.  Granny Peaches always put big globs of marmalade on the bread she gave him.  Holding the chunk in his hand, he looked around.  Where would marmalade be in such a place? 

It was then his eyes lit on the far end of the long room.  A woman was at the sink, deeply engrossed in washing a huge stack of dishes and pots.  Ah! Surely she would know!  Still holding the bread, he walked toward her, stopping about five paces behind her, cleared his throat and asked, "Miss, where is the marmalade?"

What a holy horror of a mess Rollo had created!  Rachel scrubbed and scrubbed on one pan until she looked up and realized she had been attacking it without much gain for twenty minutes.  An hour later, and she had managed to get a few more pots "under her belt" - but so had waves of soapy water on her dress front, and strands of hair had fallen free from its upsweep to hang in her face, dripping with moisture as well.  Gerta had not shown up with the replacement dress and her stomach was gurgling, even though she had managed to eat some breakfast in her rush.  At the rate of success she was enjoying, she was sure she would never get out of the kitchen. 

Another hour and Rollo still did not come.  Rachel developed a habit of stopping every now and again to look around to check if he had not decided to hide out in some nook and watch her slave away while giggling into his hairy armpit. 

Should have listened to Terry, she told herself again and again.  Scrub, scrub...should have listened...the front of her dress was soaked...boy, is Rollo going to be surprised if he thinks I’m going to be another Katryn...

A sound behind her shocked her into dropping the pot she held back into the murky sink, a sound only another human could make.  Rachel looked up, a brief exclamation of relief about to leave her lips...Gerta, you finally...and she turned just as the newcomer

asked "Miss, where is the marmalade?"

Definitely not Gerta!

"Cort!  Oh God!  It's you!"  She gasped, her hands clutched to her breast, soap-suds sliding down to her elbows and her foot sliding somewhat from a patch of water on the floor.  She just caught herself from flying at the man in a burst of joy, remembering how water-logged she was.  A few more seconds brought the realization that she looked like a bedraggled rat just extricated from a drowning ship and she froze in place.  That didn't stop her from staring at the now-alarmed man in front of her with pure love.  "You're awake!  Oh Cort, you don't know how happy I am to see you!"

That he was startled would be putting it mildly.  She not only called him by name, but looked at him rather as he recalled looking at the cinnamon tart Granny Peaches held out toward him when he was seven.  He'd waited while it baked, hardly able to endure the time that took, then when it was finally ready, he'd looked at it with eyes that devoured it before his mouth could even get close.  That was the look in the young serving girl's eyes.  He was entirely taken aback by its unexpectedness.

His own eyes large and slightly round, he took a long step backwards, then looked over his shoulder as he wondered if he should make a dash for the stairs.  Something was really... off...here.  Then his forehead creased as he looked at her more carefully.  She was sudsed, soaked, dripping from her elbows, hair plastered to her sweaty face.  Sudden pity for her gripped him.  Mikol.  Mikol was using the poor wretch for slave labor.

He opened his mouth to say something, thought the better of that particular thing, then recalled she'd spoken in English and suspicion replaced concern. A long stream of dripped suds made its way across the floor, curling around the toe of his boot.  He took another step back, not noticing he'd squeezed the chunk of bread into pulp in his grip.  "I...I...," he murmured, wishing he'd just waited in the living room for Henri, "I was just...just...looking for...marmalade."  He gulped. "Miss," he added lamely, then finally realizing what he'd done to the bread, held it out in front of him.  "For...for this," he added.

Her body didn’t seem to know which way to go first: fetch some marmalade for the good man because he was hungry, or finish the trajectory of happiness and apologize later for the spillage.  Her brain had other ideas: it was still processing the word 'Miss...'

"Marmalade...!  I don't know where the...Cort, sweetheart..." Rachel laughed, still in some state of shock.  She then stammered words she didn’t remember forming in her mind, ones her brain apparently decided were important to speak, even though it sounded ludicrous to say to someone she knew so well.   "It's me...Rachel."  She took a half step forward, even though she could see that Cort was not responding the way she had expected.  "Darling, I know you were asleep, but...don't you...remember...?"

When she stepped toward him, he took another of his long steps back. He wasn't at all sure he wanted to be within reach of this...apparition of sudsy slavery that seemed all too intent on getting within soaking range.

"Miss," he said again, his head cocked, wary, "look, I didn't mean to...to interrupt your work here.  I'll...I'll...just leave now and see about breakfast later."

"No!  Stop!  Please!"  Rachel found she was panting slightly, her heart thudding heavily as it tried to catch up with her emotions and long-suspended hopes.  What was he doing?  Why was he acting as if he had...as if...  "Cort...what's wrong?  Aren't you...aren't you glad to see me?"  Even now her brain had found its way to a conclusion, but she was refusing to accept it.  "Didn't you find the piece of coal I left you?"

"Coal?" he repeated. "YOU left the coal?"  His own heart was beating faster now. This was just too...strange.  The bread slipped from his hand, falling into a sudsy puddle before he realized his hand had opened.  He stared down at it dumbly, watching as it soaked up the soapy water. 

Did she really ask if he were glad to see her?  Why? Why in the name of heaven would she think that?

Lifting his eyes to her again, he licked his lips, then said, "Listen, Miss. I'm sorry, truly I am, that I've bothered you.  I have no idea about the coal." He turned and started a brisk stride toward the stairs, half-turning after several feet to add, "Sorry."

NOW her body would choose to move!  Rachel reached out to grab for his arm, but his long legs took him well out of reach and she was trying valiantly not to slip on the wet floor.  She found herself clutching the long preparation table as she called out:

"Stars!" 

Why the hell did I say that? 

It didn't matter.  She couldn't let him leave, now that he was awake, now that he could talk with her!

But the talking was proving to be so very...difficult, especially since he looked as if he were a deer moments before it was hit by the Mac truck  This refusal to acknowledge her was disheartening, to say the least.  "Surely you remember...our stars..." she trailed off, faltering. 

Her brain gave her a final kick of realization.  That was it. 

He didn’t remember.

Coal? Stars? That was it! Either the woman was mad or he was mad.  All he wanted was to get out of there as fast as he could. But as he hurried, he looked back at her, seeing her there holding so desperately onto the table.  He didn't see the bucket.  He tumbled over it backwards, landing hard on his rear. Scrambling almost desperately, he tried to gain his feet, tried to make it to the stairs. The stone floor was slippery and his boots slid under him, sending him onto his knees. He stayed there a moment, his eyes wide, staring at her.

Looking at her...hurt.  Good God.  It...hurt!  He had to get out of there.  Now!  He struggled more, but there was nothing to hold onto, nothing to grip to pull him upwards over the stones.  He saw her take steps toward him and he held out his hand, palm flat, in a keep back motion.  "No," he gasped.

If the moment of truth about not remembering her had hurt, watching the poor man try to run up the stairwell and end up a tangled wet mess of his own was excruciating.  Rachel lurched forward to help him, but Cort was swift in that denial, too.  So she froze again, her muscles shaking.  The floor felt as if it were tilting under her feet in a threat to completely throw her down.  She just stared at Cort, swallowing down the new bitterness, the new defeat. 

"What has Mikol done to you?"  She rasped finally, as he found purchase for his feet.

He couldn't think.  He absolutely could not think.  She kept saying things he didn't know... why...she was saying them.  He needed air!  He needed...out!  He didn't know when he'd ever felt this desperate need to...to...what?  Everything was mad.  The world was mad.  She was mad.  He was mad.  He'd thought finding out he was a character in a movie was as much as he could bear.  This woman, whoever she was, was a whirlpool and if he stayed he would drown in her.

"Go...away!" he gasped.  "Leave me alone!"  His feet found the stairs, slipped on the second step, sending his shin sharply into the third.  "Ahhh!" he groaned, but didn't stop his flight, and he scrambled up the next several steps almost on all fours, his heart pounding, his lungs desperate for air.

It seemed to him he was moving in slow motion.  Either that or the stairs lengthened as he tried to go up them.  Finally he gained the upper hallway and walked as fast as he could through the living room, not even checking to see if the door to Henri's office were still closed.  Down the steps, almost falling again in his hurry, out the front of the keep, standing a long, confused moment in the courtyard.  What now?  Where now?

His eyes found the high walkway.  Yes.  He could breathe again up there.  He hoped.  He sprinted for the steps and took them three at a time, arriving at the walkway nearly out of breath.  Still he didn't stop, couldn't stop, but made his way almost to the far end of the castle before he turned, gripping the iron rail till his knuckles grew white, staring back at the keep.

What had just happened?  He couldn't look at the keep and think coherently, so he turned to the outer wall, leaning his chest against the lower edge of a crenellation, covering his face with his hands.  Why had he fled like that?  And from a girl?  What was wrong with him?  He tried to understand it, understand himself, but there was simply nothing that...fit.  She acted like she knew him but he was sure he'd never seen the woman before.  But she was just one of Mikol's workers, why would the sight of her cause such a reaction in  him?  He couldn't be in the same room with her.  He just...couldn't.  He could not both breathe and look at her.

"Good God, man," he said to himself.  "What is the matter with you?" He shook his head violently as though he could make something fall into place. It didn't work.  "Breathe, Cort," he told himself. "One breath at a time."  He stared off into the distance, sucking air in, letting it out.  He felt foolish and angry and disturbed all at the same time.

After several minutes of simply breathing in and out, he began to feel somewhat calmer. Then he remembered that she said she had given him the coal.  His breath hitched in his chest again.  She must have.  She must have written the note.  She'd called out the word 'stars'.  That was in the note.  When...how...had she gotten the coal into his jacket pocket?  It had to be while he was asleep on the couch.  There was no other time it could've happened.  But...why?  Why would one of Mikol's servants want to slip him a note?  And a note that seemed to mean nothing.  She wasn't asking for help.  She wasn't asking for anything.  She'd only written of star dust.  What did that MEAN?  He pounded the side of his fist down hard atop the stone, causing a small split in his skin.  Bringing it to his mouth, he sucked the blood away.

He turned, the side of his hand still to his mouth, and stared up at the tower.  His room...his cell...his home.  It was the only place in his world right now that he had any sense of belonging to, though.  Sighing, he dropped his hand, and made for the steps at this end of the walkway.  Within moments he had gained his room.  What now?  He walked to the wall, touching the mark the shattering coal had made.  Her?  The coal was...hers?  He flopped onto the bed, folding both arms over his face. 

But in the dark shell they made for him, he saw her eyes, large and filled with emotion, looking at him. She didn't know him.  She couldn't know him.  So why would she look at him with her eyes so full? 

"Don't!" he said into his darkness. "Don't look at me like that!"  Even the memory of her look seemed to pierce right through him.  He rolled over, burying his face in the pillow, but still her eyes were there.  How could her eyes make him hurt all over like that?  He couldn't remain still.  He felt like his nerves were being sandpapered. 

Getting up, he circled the room several times, finally ending at the window, staring across the courtyard at the keep.  He wasn't sure he would ever go there again.  He wasn't sure he could stay away.  He turned again, sliding down the wall, sitting on the floor, his eyes fastened on the smear of coal dust on the stones across from him.  Star dust contemplating star dust.  His nerve endings were about to explode out of his body.  He folded his arms on his knees, resting his forehead on them.  "God help me," he whispered.  "Please."

Rachel watched him make his final scramble up the stairs, her knees collapsing until she found herself kneeling on the hard stone floor, staring at the water dripping down the steps, one wet boot-print in the middle of a step, feeling nauseous and dizzy at the same time.  In brief minutes, the week's work of getting closer and closer to Cort to assure him of escape, of telling him he had not been forgotten or forsaken, all dribbling away now like the spilled water, dissipating.  All for naught.

He said to go away, leave him alone.  Rachel's head rang with those words.  How they hurt!  She rolled back until she leaned against the cabinet doors of the preparation table, all the pent up energy of the day...nay the week, drained down through her hands into the stone along with the water.  She felt too hurt to even cry.  She didn’t want to move, didn’t want to think.  All she knew was that Cort had not recognized her and he did not want to be with her.

Self-preservation forced her to draw her feet back under her, lift her up.  He did NOT recognize her, simply that.  Had to be a reason, had to...had...

Rachel stumbled over to the pots and pans, surveyed the spillage on the floor, the mashed bit of bread he had dropped.

Her hand flew to her mouth and the grief rising up in her filled it.  Choking, she leaned over the sink and let it fall until she knew the last of it had been expelled from her.  Then, rinsing her mouth and face, turned to face the pile of dishes once more, numb, dumbfounded.  Move forward, she heard Deidre say.  She couldn’t stay in one place...don't let it...

She shut off the spigot of water.  She couldn’t do this anymore.  She grabbed a dry dish towel and stumbled over to the door of the pantry.  What she needed was a nice dark dry room to huddle in, a cave where she could let it all puddle around her .  She didn’t want to see anyone now.  She just wanted to sit and let the tears flow.

So she sat on a huge sack of flour, wiping and sniffing, trying to regain normal breath, prevent emotions from wiping out any attempt by her brain to make sense of it.  Could she come back tomorrow and hope to get close again?  Not when he said to leave him alone.  He'd never said that before!  Confusion was turning to anger…an unspecified anger that could not find blame in Cort, but wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake him.  You've got to remember if you want to survive!

Tears continued to roll down her face.  It wasn’t that he couldn’t remember who she was, it was that he couldn’t remember what they were together...

Shame and grief were so tangled up inside her, crowding out any logical thought, that she didn’t hear the footsteps outside the door, had no time to recover some semblance of dignity or neutral appearance before the door was slowly pushed open.  Instead of calling out that she was inside, Rachel sat stock still and waited...for some final blow, a fatalistic part of her told her.  All it would take to end this would be for Mikol to find her weeping in the pantry.  Then there would never be a chance again.

Henri had never seen the kitchen in such disarray.  Soapy water was strewn everywhere, a bucket knocked over, even a large piece of some sort of food lay on the floor.  Rollo would explode. Then Mikol would explode.  He bent quickly, setting the bucket aright, picking up the soaked chunk of the loaf. Where was Cort? Had he been a part of what had happened down here? He was worried. Why wasn't Cort here?  Why wasn't...anyone...here?

Then, in the silence, he heard a muffled sobbing.  He turned slowly, trying to determine its source, finally settling on the pantry. Quietly he approached the door, pushing it open. "Cort, you in here?" he called hesitatingly.

Rachel gasped at the sound of the doctor's voice.  Henri!  She didn’t know whether to chase him off in fear of his discovering her mess, or faint in relief.  If Gerta had not explained to her on the way home that Henri was aware of who she was and was willing to help as well, Rachel would have pushed past Henri and run as fast out of the castle as she could manage. 

Instead, she sniffled once more and weakly answered, "its not Cort.  He's been here already.  It's just...me."

"Who?" he replied, puzzled at first.  Peering more closely into the shadows, he saw it was the young woman Gerta had told him about...Cort's young woman.

"Rachel, is that right? Rachel?  Why are you in the pantry, dear girl? Is something wrong?"

"Yes...Rachel.  Only I’m not supposed to go by Rachel. I'm Veronica...I might as well be Veronica for all the good it did to...come in...and...and..."  Rachel couldn’t help it.  Apparently there were still sobs floating up from inside and one great big bubble of a sob took over her breath.  She buried her face in the towel and tried to shove the sob back down.

Instantly the doctor was by her side, squatting, patting her shoulder. "What is it, little one?" he asked, really concerned.  "Did you see Cort? He was supposed to come down and have some breakfast.  Was he here?"

"He was.  I was right there, at the dishes, soaked..." a perverse laugh is what bubbled up next as a ludicrous image came to mind, of her turning around, festooned with suds and splashed with water.  No Venus rising from the sea was she at that particular moment!

"And he wanted marmalade for the bread...and I said to him...I was surprised to see him and...and he just STOOD there, looking at me like I was some sort of...creature…from the Black Lagoon!"

The doctor was quiet a long moment, just looking at her.  She hadn't known.  Of course she hadn't known!  Only he and Mikol knew what the warp had cost Cort.  No wonder he'd looked at her...strangely.  "I...I didn't know you would be down here when I sent him to get some food," he said. "What happened? Can you tell me what he said, what he did?"

Rachel nodded, liking the comforting sound of the doctor's voice, the way it seemed to calm her despite her frazzled nerves and insulted dignity.  She took a couple of steadying breaths. 

"I’m not supposed to be down here, but Rollo took off for town and Mikol was upset...not with me...yet...and so he ordered me into the kitchen to get things ready for when Rollo does come back...have you seen him?"  Henri shook his head and Rachel bit back an expletive describing Rollo's parentage and went on.  "And so I got to washing the dishes...big pile of horrible dishes...so I was soaked, you know?  I was a mess...and there I was, just merrily scrubbing away, when I heard a noise behind me and...and...there he was!  He was standing there, as innocent as can be, wanting marmalade to go with the bread he found...and I was so surprised to see him...I wasn’t expecting him...I don’t know when I thought I was going to see him because, you know..." Rachel caught herself because Henri's mouth was pursing slightly with impatience.  "Sorry...I ramble when I’m upset.  But I was so...happy!"  Rachel emphasized, the first of many hiccoughs manifesting itself now.  "And I told him so.  I would have thrown myself at him if I hadn’t been so covered in grease and soap."

"Was he glad to see...you?  How did he respond to you?"

Rachel fought to keep another sob from taking over.  "If you call taking three large steps backwards and staring at me as if I had sprouted five heads and started trying to kiss him with five forked tongues 'glad to see me', then he responded enthusiastically!" Rachel sighed, thinking back to NanoCorp.  Sid would never let her live it down.  In between a few more hiccoughs, she finished describing her encounter, up to the moment when he ran up the stairs and she hid in the pantry.  She didn’t tell him about losing her dignity in the sink.  She felt low enough without reliving that.

"I wish...," Henri began, pausing when she looked at him with her great sad eyes, "I wish I'd had a chance to prepare you, my dear."  He sighed.  "You see, Mikol's warp...well, it's different from what I've heard of Sid's.  Very different. The characters, they come through it...raw, unprotected...not like Mikol's retrievers. Most have died. Cort was Mikol's first...survival...in a decade.  And he…," he looked compassionately at Rachel, "he very nearly died."

He half rose, then settled on a wooden box near where she sat on the flour sack.  “We...I...almost lost him several times. And it's had several rather profound effects on him, I'm afraid.  One is that he gets terrible headaches. That's why you found him sedated on the couch yesterday. The other," he paused again, studying her face in the dim light, "is that he has no memory of anything beyond the moment in his movie when the buildings began exploding."  He waited, letting her digest what he'd just said before continuing.

Rachel's hiccoughs were becoming more profound by the minute, but she forgot all about them as Henri illuminated Cort’s perspective, her eyes growing wide as the doctor described the limit of the young priest’s memory.

"Nothing after that?"  She squeaked in disbelief.  "Oh this is bad.  This is very bad!  Not even..." she faltered.  Somehow, it made some sense if he couldn’t remember her after all.  She had followed Retriever's rules in warping to the last moments of the film, inserting herself sight unseen to make the encounter after credits began.  He wouldn’t remember that now, would he?  That was never in the film. 

"It makes sense..." she said out loud.  "There was no way I could have been in the movie.  He can’t even remember getting the marshal's star?  But, why?  Dear God...his whole memory could have been...."  Horrible possibilities of Mikol's warp were clicking together, the implications for Cort in more sharp display.  Sid had once explained that going through warp was a bit like experiencing rewind, and that he had resolved that problem with his own ‘patent’ technology.  Something Mikol had yet to implement!  "Dear God...dear God!"  She repeated, realizing why Cort’s memory stopped where it had.  She leaned forward to cradle her head on her hands.  If Mikol’s warp had succeeded in its full capacity, then….

"He thought he'd been buried under the rubble of the buildings, " Henri continued explaining. "Mikol let him think that.  Then I...yesterday...,” he faltered, "I let him see the whole movie. Mikol doesn't know, not yet."  He heaved a great sigh.  "You see, Rachel, when Mikol tried showing him his movie the other day, he only got part way into it and had to stop.  The shock of seeing himself...it was too much for him.  But then...after I told him about Terry and Bud and even Sid, well, he felt like he could handle it and wanted to try again.  So we did while Mikol was in Hromada. And this time he did make it all the way through and when he realized the movie didn't end for him where he thought it had, he developed an absolutely massive headache.  He's suffered a lot," he added, looking away from Rachel. But then, seeing her distress, he clasped his hand on her arm. "He's a strong one, your Cort. He's got such...heart. But this is hard for him.  All this.  I know he feels very lost.  He needs you, my dear.  He doesn't know it, not now, but he needs you terribly."  He sighed again.  "From what you say of his reactions, it seems the sight of you was very confusing for him."  He looked toward the door again.  "I wonder where he is now?"  Then he smiled at her.  "I fear I've become very protective of our young man."

Rachel met Henri's kind gaze with a watery smile, nodding in vigorous agreement at Henri's assessment of Cort's character.

"Me, too.  I love him.  I did from the moment I saw him.  It just...hurts...knowing he can't even remember that."  Henri's words had done their work in smoothing the more jagged edges of her discovery.  "It's what...well, at least he told me it did...it's what got him through the first time we retrieved him.  He didn't react well to that either.  He...he nearly died then, too."  Rachel's mind replayed the emergency room, the nurses slapping on electrodes and powering up the defibrillator.  There had been some question of rejection then, sitting as she did at his bedside, wondering if and when he woke up that he would want her after all.  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then looked back at Henri, who was watching with silent sympathy.

"Thank you so much.  For...everything.  For watching over him.  For protecting him.  I just...it just feels like...now...we can't get him away..."

"He wants to, you know.  Get away.  He wants to go to America.  Find Terry and Bud. Even though he doesn't remember them, he thinks that being with others of his...kind...will, will be right for him."  He looked at her, considering her seriously. "Would you be willing to do that?  If we can get him out of Kamen.  Will you help him get to them? Even if he doesn't remember you?"  He shuddered, looking at the beams in the ceiling.  "I've got to get him away from Mikol before...."

"He wants to see Terry and Bud?"  Her heart did a flip.  This was a hopeful sign!  But her thoughts now raced along, remembering how much more relaxed Cort had been once Terry had met with him, how he and Bud had commiserated..."Am I willing?  Wild horses couldn't keep me from it!"  She almost missed Henri's last statement and blinked in a double take, her expression darkening at the quiet intonation of doom in the doctor's voice  "What?  What does Mikol have planned?"

Henri chewed his lip before answering.  "One never quite...knows...where anything with Mikol is going to end up.  But there will come a point when he will have all he wants from Cort."  He looked at her meaningfully.  "Then he will have no further...use...for him."

"What do we do?  The whole reason I’m here is to get him out, but I'm stuck.  I mean, even if we could simply walk out with him right now...would he...even come...having seen me and...not..." Rachel's mood of before returned with swift stab of pain.  She rubbed her temples, wanting very much to start the morning over.  "Do you think it would be possible for me to go home early today?  Would Mikol allow that?  I’ve been going full steam since he hired me Friday, and I...I really need to catch my breath.  Especially after this morning.  I can't think anymore...and if I see him in other parts of the castle, I don’t think I will be able to..." she trailed off, mentally ticking off possible excuses...she broke her leg, or her arm...her neck...her heart...

"The floor in the kitchen...even when dishwater has not been spilled...it is always slightly damp...always slippery.  Perhaps you have fallen, have landed too hard on your shoulder?  I, as Kamen's doctor, will see you safely home.  Will that work?  Is that what you need, my dear?"

"That would be lovely."  Rachel grinned back at Henri, feeling a world of gratitude for the conspiratorial glint in his eye.  He rose to his feet and took her right hand and moved it to place on her left shoulder, a wordless direction to feign agony.  Then, leading her out the door, he helped her navigate the kitchen and up the steps - "don't worry about Rollo.  He should know better than to treat you like he did Katryn."

Once upstairs, he said, "wait here a moment," gently pointing her to the couch where Cort had been sleeping when she first saw him.  He went into his office and called Mikol, explaining how the new housekeeper had been tending to Rollo's work and had slipped on the old stone floor, injuring her shoulder.  "She's in much pain with it and I don't think will be able to work further today.  I'm driving her back to Hromada and will see to her well-being.  I think by tomorrow she should be able to return to work."  Mikol was not pleased, but there was nothing he could do about it.  Hanging up with a small smile, the doctor returned to the living room. 

"It's all right.  I'll be driving you back to your hotel.  It's necessary that I be seen going to your room as though you needed attending, then I will come back here and check on our guest in the tower.  How does that sound?"

She nodded in compliance, biting her lower lip to keep from a fresh rain of tears, but a few escaped anyway, which probably helped the illusion of physical pain.  In truth it was the scene of yesterday replaying itself, sitting in the same spot where Cort had been stretched out; and there she had been, unknowing, unsuspecting, so ready to lead him out the door, had he been awake....  

She followed Henri to his car, a little hatchback that looked as though it had seen better days and that it might be a better ride if Henri just aimed its nose down the slope and let it follow the path of gravity.  As it was, the engine chuckled into a half-hearted roar and Henri guided it to the main road as Rachel watched the tower move out of sight.  She thought she saw a face at the window watching them, but Henri turned a corner, and the tower was gone.

It took less time, of course, reaching the hotel than it did walking, and for that Rachel was very grateful.  Even faking a shoulder injury was harder than it looked, but she held her shoulder and let Henri guide her through the front door before relaxing.  Volos sat at the counter, his eyebrows rising at the sight of the two of them, but Henri gave her a gentle nudge to keep the act and they climbed the stairs to her room

Once inside Henri looked at his watch and exhaled a sigh of relief.

"Made it!" he commented, "and with a good half hour to spare before I must be back at Kamen."  He'd brought his medical bag with him and reached in, pulling out a bottle of liniment.  When he'd opened it, he screwed up his face a bit.  "Smells terrible, but rub some on your shoulder.  If anyone comes by, it will give authenticity to your injury, eh?"

She wrinkled her nose when the odor hit her, cast a look of betrayed doubt at Henri and then obeyed, rubbing as little as possible into her skin.  Henri would have none of that and applied a more liberal amount.

"Is this my punishment for turning the kitchen into a swamp?"  She joked.  "Thank you," she added, more sober.  She sat down on the bed, feeling self-conscious now.  “Would you like a glass of water...or something, before you go back?" The urge to bury herself under the covers of the bed and wait for someone to rescue her was filling her up, draining her muscles, numbing her heart.  Sid's mocking voice echoed loudly now: "you do know it's hopeless, don't you?"

Yes, Sid.  Now I know.

Her despair was evident to his watching eyes.  Ignoring her offer of water, he stood near where she was seated, then crouched in front of her, placing both hands on her knees. 

"Listen to me, Rachel," he said, his voice intent, "do not give up hope. Do you hear me? Hope abandoned is defeat welcomed. We cannot do that.  We cannot let ourselves be overtaken by distress no matter how great its size may seem.  There is much at stake here. No one knows that better than I."  He paused, having already figured he would not get out of this alive.  But at this very moment, he felt more alive than he had in years. "But it is all worth it. Cort is worth it. You," and he patted her right knee kindly, "are worth it."

Then he stood. "I must go now, little one. Is there anything I should say to Cort on your behalf?"

Lord!  Did she EVER run out of tears?  There was at least one left and it came trickling out as Henri spoke to her.  She knew he was right, knew that now was not time to give up, but everything that she had been planning her strategy (what there was of it) around was based on Cort seeing her, knowing that help was on its way.  Now, not only was she going to have to help find a way to defeat Mikol, she was going to have to start all over with Cort.

She nodded at Henri's question if there was anything she wanted to pass on to her beloved but her mind was drawing a full blank, stuck like a record on 'start over.' 

Starting over...

What could she possibly say, much less do?  If the coal had meant nothing to him, then...

Her eyes, wandering the room, fell upon an item on the bedside table, one she had brought with her to gaze at and remember herself: the carved cross from their time in Gladiator.  Here in Hromada, as it had in Zucchabar, the cross had been comfort and inspiration, a tangible thing to cherish in the face of his absence, its fine lines and starburst design a reflection of the man’s emotion and spirit.  This, along with his shirt, still held the aura of him close to it, an essence she could feel every time she held it.  Rachel leaned over and picked it up, her thumb caressing the wood, a smooth spot that seemed made for her hand.

"I don’t think my saying anything will do any good," she finally replied, her voice low.  "Unless you want to tell him that I know this means so much to him.  Not just that he carved it...for me...but everything it stands for.  He shouldn't forget God, even if he never remembers me."  She handed Henri the cross, her last words dropping like lead into the air.  Was she willing to help, even if he never remembered her?  She couldn’t answer that, not at this minute; but she knew deep down that a restored memory of her would mean nothing at all if he couldn't remember his faith.

"He carved this?" he said softly, taking it from her hands.  "I must tell you this before I go.  This one last thing.  There are cameras in his room.  He does not know they are there, but Mikol watches him and when he is gone, he has me watch."  He looked away, embarrassed.  "I feel like an intruder into his privacy, but I do it because I must report."  Looking back at her, he continued.  "I was alone, watching, and he was having a particularly difficult time, was very... unhappy.  He'd let his dinner grow cold and I was wondering if he would ever eat anything of it all.  Then he took two things off the tray and went to the window in his room.  You may have noticed that high window in the tower?  Anyway, he took the items there and...and...he had communion.  It was just a bit of bread and a small glass of red wine.  But, Rachel, it was...holy."  He closed his eyes, remembering.  "I don't know when I have ever been so moved."  Looking at her again, he said.  "It was then...then that I knew I would risk anything for him.  So I say this to you for your own encouragement.  He has found God there in that tower room.  He has not forgotten.  And neither must you, my dear."

He gathered up his bag, stopping with his hand on the knob.  "I will give him this emblem he himself made in other days and we will see what we will see."  He smiled.  "Be strong, dear girl. Some things are not in our hands, but the things that are...," he smiled again and shrugged, then left.

ON TO PART 16

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