arms.
'Bring the veil forward,' the Directrix commanded. 'And put it on her.'
The diaphanous sheath was draped over Cormia's head, and it landed upon her with the weight of a thousand stones. As it fell before her eyes, the world around her fogged.
'Stand,' she was told.
She got to her feet and had to steady herself; her heart beating hard behind her ribs, her palms growing sweaty. The panic grew worse as the heavy robing was borne forward by the two Chosen. As the ceremonial dress was laid upon her from behind, it clamped onto her shoulders, not so much settling onto her frame as locking onto her body. She felt as though some giant stood at her back with his massive, pawlike hands pressing her down.
The hood was lifted over her head and everything went black.
The front of the robe was buttoned in place over the tail end of the hood, and Cormia tried not to think about when and in what manner those fastenings were going to be freed again. She tried to take slow, deep breaths. Fresh air came in through some vents at her neck, but it wasn't enough. Not by a measure and a half.
Under her dressings all sound was muffled, and it would be difficult for anyone to hear her speak. But then, she had no personal role in either the presentation ceremony or the mating ritual that was to come. She was a symbol, not a female, so her individual response was not required or encouraged. The traditions reined supreme.
'Perfect,' one of her sisters said.
'Resplendent.'
'Worthy of us.'
Cormia opened her mouth and whispered to herself, 'I am me. I am me. I am me…'
Tears welled and fell, but she couldn't reach her face to wipe them off, so they ran down her cheeks and her throat, getting lost in the robing.
With no warning, her panic suddenly got away from her, a wild animal set loose. She wheeled around, hobbled by the heavy robes, but driven by a need to flee that she could not harness. She took off in the direction she thought was the door, dragging the weight with her. Dimly she heard shrieks of surprise echoing in the bathing chamber, along with crashing sounds as bottles and bowls and jars were knocked asunder.
She flailed around, trying to strip off the robing, desperate for relief.
Desperate to be free of her destiny.
Chapter Thirty-three
In downtown Caldwell, in the northeast corner of the St. Francis Hospital complex, Manuel Manello, M.D., hung up the phone on his desk without having dialed anything on it or having answered a call that had come through to him. He stared at the NEC console. The thing was jacked up with buttons, right out of a Circuit City junkie's wet dreams with all its bells and whistles.
He wanted to throw it across the room.
He wanted to, but he didn't. He'd given up throwing tennis rackets, TV remotes, scalpels, and books when he decided to become the youngest chief of surgery in St. Francis Hospital history. Since then, his palm punting involved only empty bottles and vending machine wrappers snapped into trash cans. And that was just to keep his aim up.
Shifting back in his leather chair, he pivoted himself around and stared out the window of his office. It was a nice office. Big, fancy as shit, all mahogany-paneled and oriental-rugged up, the Throne Room, as it was known, had served as the head surgeon's landing pad for fifty years. He'd been sitting pretty in the digs for about three years now, and if he ever got a break in the action he was going to give the place a makeover. All the Establishment gloss made him scratch.
He thought of the damn phone and knew he was going to make a call he shouldn't. It was just so fucking weak, and it was going to come across that way, even if he was all his usual macho arrogance.
Still, he was going to end up letting his fingers do the walking.
To put off the inevitable, he blew some time staring out the window. From his vantage point he could see the front of St. Francis's landscaped entrance, as well as the city beyond. Hands down this was the best view on hospital grounds. In the spring cherry trees and tulips bloomed in the median of the entrance's drive. And in the summer, on either side of the two lanes maples leafed up green as emeralds until they faded to peach and yellow in the fall.
Usually he didn't spend a lot of time enjoying the scenery, but he did appreciate knowing it was there. Sometimes a man needed to corral his thoughts.
He was having one of those moments now.
Last night he'd called Jane's cell phone, figuring she'd be home from that damn interview. No answer. He'd called her this morning. No answer.
Manny twisted around, punched out ten digits, and waited, tapping a Montblanc pen on his blotter.
When the ringing was answered, he didn't wait for a hello. 'Falcheck, you raiding dickhead.'
Ken Falcheck laughed. 'Manello, you have such a way with words. And me being your elder, I'm especially shocked.'
'So how's life in the slow lane, old man?'
'Good, good. Now tell me, baby boy, they letting you eat solid foods yet or are you still on the Gerber?'
'I'm up to oatmeal. Which means I'll be well fortified to do your hip replacement anytime you get bored with that walker.'
This was all utter bullshit, of course. At sixty-two Ken Falcheck was in great shape, and a ballbuster right up Manny's lane. The two had gotten along ever since Manny had gone through the guy's training program fifteen years ago.
'So, with all deference to the elderly,' Manny drawled, 'why are you macking on my trauma surgeon? And what did you think of her?'
There was a slight pause. 'What are you talking about? I got a message Thursday from some guy saying she had to reschedule. I thought that was why you're calling. To gloat that she blew me off and you were keeping her.'
A nasty sensation wrapped around the back of Manello's neck, like someone had slapped a palmful of cold mud on him.
He kept his voice level. 'Come on, would I do that?'
'Yeah, you would. I trained you, remember? You get all your bad habits from me.'
'Just the professional ones. Hey, the guy who called-you get his name?'
'Nope. Figured it was her assistant or something. Obviously wasn't you. I know your voice, plus the guy was polite.'
Manny swallowed hard. Okay, he needed to dump this call right away. Jesus Christ, where the hell was Jane?
'So, Manello, can I assume you're keeping her?'
'Let's face facts, I've got a lot of things I can offer her.' Himself being one of them.
'Just not the chairmanship of a department.'
God, at the moment, all this bullshit medical politicking didn't matter. Jane was MIA, as far as Manny was concerned, and he needed to find her.
With perfect timing, his assistant poked her head through his door. 'Oh, sorry-'
'No, wait. Hey, Falcheck, I've got to go.' He hung up as Ken was still saying good-bye and immediately started dialing Jane's house. 'Listen, I need to make a phone-'
'Dr. Whitcomb just called in sick.'
Manny looked up from the phone. 'Did you speak to her? Was she the one who called?'
