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"I'll stay with Elliot," Maeve said.
Elliot felt a rush of pleasure at Agnes's response. Even here, in this wonderful old house, with Ian a few footsteps away, she chose to be with Elliot. "Go ahead," he said with a smile. "I'll be fine."
Agnes kissed his scarred cheek, then left him alone with the beautiful woman named Maeve.
He stared up at her, unable to look away. She was lovely, with her pale skin and hazel eyes, and curly red-gold hair that shone like reflected sunlight. What must she think of him, this fey, vibrant beauty? He twisted
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slightly, tried to press the scarred half of his face into the pillow.
"Now, why are you sinking down into your pillow, Elliot? You can hardly eat that way." "You don't have to stay."
At first she looked offended, and then she sighed quietly. Her shoulders rounded and her hazel eyes turned sad. "You want me to leave. I suppose Selena told you about me."
Elliot frowned. "No. I just .. . just figured you'd want to leave."
She laughed-a high, clear sound that was lighter than the winter air. Christmas bells, he thought suddenly, and wondered where such a worldly thought had come from. But it was true, her laughter reminded him of the long-forgotten sound of Christmas bells. "Then leave the figuring to someone else, Elliot. You're no good at it."
The melodious sound of her voice mesmerized him, made him forget-for just a second-that he was big and clumsy and horribly scarred. "You're beautiful," he whispered, stunned to hear the thought slip from his lips. Immediately he was ashamed.
A smile tugged on her mouth. "Really?" She brought a pale hand to her chest. "No one has told me that in years."
He couldn't imagine such a thing. "Me, either," he said with a self-deprecating laugh.
She stared down at him, her gaze steady and frank. "But you're a very good-looking man."
He frowned. Was she making fun of him? He couldn't tell. Those hazel eyes were so honest-looking. "You ... you aren't disgusted by my scar?"
She laughed again, but the sound was softer this time, had a sad edge. "You haven't seen my scar, Elliot. And believe me, it makes that little mark on your face seem like nothing."
"Little mark on my face?"
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She smiled. "You know, in some cultures-or is it fiction? I can't recall-anyway, somewhere people think scars are badges of honor on a worthy soul. I wouldn't mind a little physical scar myself. It would be better than my problem."
He shouldn't ask so personal a question, but her remark seemed to invite such familiarity. Slowly, feeling as if he were inching down a thin, thin branch that could snap at any second, he asked, "What's your problem?"
"I'm ... mad."
"You mean angry?"
"No. Mad, like tomorrow I might not recognize you. Any second now, I could begin a debate with the bedpost or eat the paint. Mad. Insane." She tried to smile.
He could see the sadness in her eyes, and the shame. Two emotions he recognized well. "And the day after that?"
"The day after, I could be as sane as you are. Or I could believe I'm Sigmund Freud himself. There's no telling." She gave a trilling, brittle laugh. "Of course, you can ignore me on those days. It won't hurt my feelings a bit."
"Don't."
She drew in a sharp breath. "What do you mean?"
"I've lived with this face for forty-nine of my fifty-six years, Maeve. I know you get used to people rejecting you. You come to expect it. But it never stops hurting. You spend your whole life looking for someone-just one person-who sees past the scar."
Tears filled her eyes. Their gazes met, and in that one unexpected moment, he saw that they understood each other, understood and accepted. It had never happened to him before; never had he shared his pain with another with such honesty, such blatant weakness. And now that he had, he felt an almost magical sense of
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