Which Art In Hope (Spooner Federation Saga Book 1) by Porretto Francis W

Author:Porretto, Francis W. [Porretto, Francis W.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2010-10-28T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 31

Armand passed his hand lightly over Teresza's forehead and hair. She gave no indication that she noticed. Her eyes remained closed.

The kidnapping and rape were ten days behind them, but her vitality gave no sign of returning. She'd barely shown enough animation to eat and drink. Almost all the rest of the time, she slept, or feigned sleep. His attempts to rouse her telepathically had garnered the same response as his spoken words: none.

Various of their neighbors had come to call. She'd slept through most of the visits, and had ignored the others, declining to engage her visitors even so far as to say hello. Armand had made apologies for her, accepted the expressions of sympathy, and thanked each caller with all the courtesy at his command. The pity that shone from face after departing face had come near to unmanning him.

Maria Simpson had been worst of all. Armand had choked her husband to death while she watched. He hadn't felt that pitch of rage even toward Marchesand, who'd conceived and orchestrated Teresza's abduction. But he'd done it, and not with psi: one man's strength against another. He'd left Simpson's body lying in the dust before his house while his wife looked on. Yet the very next day, Maria came to Teresza's bedside to tend to her.

The widow had spoken no word. She bathed Teresza from a pail scented with mint from Teresza's own garden. When Teresza was clean and freshly gowned, the widow brushed Teresza's hair and set a fresh flower behind her ear. She capped her ministrations with a thing Armand had never seen before, a thing he hoped never to see again: she knelt by his wife's bedside, made a steeple of her hands, bowed over them, and prayed.

Armand could not bear to witness it. He retreated from his own home and waited outside his door until Maria Simpson was finished. She emerged, pail in hand, nodded to him, and departed as silently as she had come.

Even for that, Teresza had not roused.

Is it time to try an invasive measure? She wouldn't like it, but I can't let her slip away from me this way.

He wasn't sure he could effect a change even with his powers. He could prod her endocrine glands, stimulate her metabolism, make it impossible for her to sleep. He could inflict all sorts of minor discomforts upon her, hopefully forcing her to rise just to deal with the tickles, itches, and stings. But there were no guarantees, except one: the longer the woman he loved remained unresponsive, the slimmer grew his chances of reanimating her, freeing her from the shell in which her essence hid.

Maybe the next time she wakes and eats.

He rose and went out of their hovel, abruptly incapable of sitting still any longer. The sky was slate gray. The clouds were roiled by a northern wind with a frosty edge. It promised a cold spell to come, a threat to the crops Teresza had planted before the incident. He'd

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