strangely disorientated, half her mind still clinging to the dream, alienated from the roar of the rush hour around her. It was as if this were the unreal world and that other cold past the place where she still belonged.
Her apartment was cool and shadowy, scented by some pinks in a bowl by the bookcase. She threw open the tall balcony windows and stood for a moment looking out at the trees in the square. Another shower was on its way, the heavy cloud throwing racing shadows over the rooftops on the far side of the gardens.
She turned toward the kitchen. After collecting a glass of apple juice from the carton in the refrigerator, she carried it along to the bathroom, set it carefully down on the edge of the bath, and turned on the shower. She stepped out of her clothes, then stood beneath the tepid water, letting it cascade down onto her upturned face, running it through her aching fingers. She stood there a long time, not allowing herself to think, just feeling the clean stream of the water wash over her. Soon she would slip on her cool cotton bathrobe, sit down at her desk, and write up her notes, just as she always did after an interview, while it was still absolutely fresh in her mind. Except that this time she had very few notes, only the small tape recorder that was waiting for her now on the chair just inside the front door.
Slowly she toweled her hair dry, then, sipping from her glass, she wandered back into the living room. She ran her fingers across the buttons of the machine, but she did not switch it on. Instead she sat down and stared blankly at the carpet.
In the top drawer of her desk was the first rough typescript of her article. She could remember clearly the introduction she had drafted:
Would you like to discover that in a previous life you had been a queen or an emperor; that, just as you had always suspected, you are not quite of this mundane world; that in your past there are secrets, glamour, and adventure, just waiting to be remembered? Of course you would. Hypnotists say that they can reveal this past to you by their regression techniques. But just how genuine are their claims? Joanna Clifford investigates…
Jo got up restlessly. Joanna Clifford investigates, and ends up getting her fingers burned, she thought ruefully. On medieval stone. She examined her nails again. They still felt raw and torn, but nowhere could she see any sign of damage; even the polish was unchipped. She had a vivid recollection suddenly of the small blue-painted office in Edinburgh. Her hands had been injured then too. She frowned, remembering with a shiver the streaks of blood on the rush matting. “Oh, Christ!” She fought back a sudden wave of nausea. Had Cohen hypnotized her after all? Had she seen that bloody massacre before, in his office? Was that what Sam had wanted to tell her? She rubbed her hands on the front of her bathrobe and looked at them hard. Then, taking a deep breath, she went over and picked up the tape recorder, setting it on the low coffee table. Kneeling on the carpet, she pressed the rewind button and listened to the whine of the spinning tape. She did not wait for the whole reel. Halfway through she stopped it and started to listen.
“William is reading the letter now and the prince is listening to him. But he is angry. He is interrupting. They are going to quarrel. William is looking down at him and putting down the parchment. He is raising his dagger. He is going to…Oh, no,
Jo found she was shaking. She wanted to press her hands against her ears to cut out the sound of the anguished screaming on the tape, but she forced herself to go on listening as a second voice broke in. It was Sarah and she sounded frightened. “For God’s sake, Carl, bring her out of it! What are you waiting for?”
“Listen to me, Jo. Listen!” Bennet tried to cut in, his patient, quiet voice taut. “Lady Matilda, can you hear me?” He was shouting now. “Listen to me. I am going to count to three. And you are going to wake up.
But her own voice, or the voice of that other woman speaking through her, ran on and on, sweeping his aside, not hearing his attempts to interrupt. Jo was breathing heavily, a pulse drumming in her forehead. She could hear all three of them now. Sarah sobbing, saying “Carl, stop her, stop her,” Bennet repeating her name over and over again-both names-and above them her own hysterical voice running on out of control, describing the bloodshed and terror she was watching.
Then abruptly there was silence, save for the sound of panting, she was not sure whose. Jo heard a sharp rattle as something was knocked over, and then Bennet’s voice very close now to the microphone. “Let me touch her face. Quickly! Perhaps with my fingers, like so. Matilda? Can you hear me? I want you to hear me. I am going to count to three and then you will wake up. One, two, three.”
There was a long silence, then Sarah cried, “You’ve lost her, Carl. For God’s sake,
Bennet was talking softly, reassuringly again, but Jo could hear the undertones of fear in his voice. “Matilda, can you hear me? I want you to answer me. Matilda? You must listen. You are Jo Clifford and soon you will wake up back in my consulting room in London. Can you hear me, my dear? I want you to forget about Matilda.”
There was a long silence, then Sarah whispered, very near the microphone, “What do we do?”
Bennet sounded exhausted. “There is nothing we can do. Let her sleep. She will wake by herself in the end.”
Jo started with shock. She distinctly remembered hearing him say that. His voice had reached her, lying half awake in the shadowy bedchamber at Abergavenny, but she-or Matilda-had pulled back, rejecting his call, and she had fallen once more into unconsciousness. She shivered at the memory.
The sharp clink of glass on glass came over the machine and she found herself once more giving a rueful smile. So he had had to have a drink at that point, as, locked in silence where he could not follow her, she had woken in the past and begun her search of the deserted windswept castle.
For several minutes more the tape ran quiet, then Sarah’s voice rang out excitedly. “Carl, I think she’s waking up. Her eyelids are flickering.”
“Jo? Jo?” Bennet was back by the microphone in a second.
Jo heard her own voice moaning softly, then at last came a husky “There’s someone there. Who is it?”
“We’re reaching her now.” Bennet’s murmur was full of relief. “Jo? Can you hear me? Matilda? My lady?” There was a hiss on the tape and Jo strained forward to hear what followed. But there was nothing more. With a sharp
She leaned back against the legs of the chair. She was trembling all over and her hands were slippery with sweat. She rubbed them on her bathrobe. Strange that she had expected to hear it all again-the sound effects, the screams, the grunts, the clash of swords. But of course to the onlooker, as to the microphone, it was all reported, like hearing someone else’s commentary on what they could see through a telescope. Only to her was it completely real. The others had been merely eavesdroppers on her dream.
Slowly she put her head in her hands and was aware suddenly that there were tears on her cheeks.
Nick swung out of the office and ran down the stairs to the street. The skies had cleared after the storm, but the gutters still ran with rain as he sprinted toward the parking lot.
Jo’s door was on the latch. He pushed it open with a frown. It was unlike her to be careless.
“Jo? Where are you?” he called. He walked through to the living room and glanced in. She was sitting on the floor, her face white and strained, her hair still damp from the shower. He saw at once that she had been crying. She looked at him blankly.
“What is it? Are you all right?” He flung down the jacket he had been carrying slung over his shoulder and was beside her in two strides. Crouching, he put his arms around her. “You look terrible, love. Nothing is worth getting that worked up about. Ignore the damned article. It doesn’t matter. No one cares what it said.” He took her hand in his. “You’re like ice! For God’s sake, Jo. What have you been doing?”
She looked up at him at last, pushing him away from her. “Pour me a large drink, Nick, will you?”
He gave her a long, searching look. Then he stood up. He found the Scotch and two glasses in the kitchen. “It’s not like you to fold, Jo,” he called over his shoulder. “You’re a fighter, remember?” He brought the drinks in and handed her one. “It’s Tim’s fault. He was supposed to warn you last night what might happen.”
She took a deep gulp from her glass and put it on the table. “What are you talking about?” Her voice was slightly hoarse.
