but lay quietly, trying to control the trembling of her body. Trying to think. Trying not to think.
She shuddered at the sound of the rain blowing against the house. Rain at night always seemed such a desolate sound, like the mournful drumbeat of a troubled heart.
Another strong blast of wind-driven rain hurled itself between the battlements outside and slammed against the window. Finola cringed, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment.
It wasnât the Dream that had awakened her this time, but the Feeling. A hideous, bleak sense of isolation, as if she were trapped in the vault of night itself. The darkness was dense and glacial, unyielding, bringing with it an overwhelming sense of betrayal that swept over her like a tidal wave of despair.
Again she had heard the faraway sound of musicâ¦strange, high-pitchedâalmost shrillâyet elusive, like the night wind sighing through the trees.
At the last she had felt the hands close about her throatâ¦suffocating herâ¦crushing the breath from herâ¦stealing her lifeâ¦
And then, as always, she awakened with a start, panicked, terrified, filled with a sense of revulsion, as if she had been touched by something unclean.
The nausea came upon her in a wave, the sudden wash of sickness. Bracing herself, she resisted the urge to spring out of bed and escape the room. It would soon pass, as it always did.
Finally she was able to draw in one steadying breath, then another. Little by little the trembling subsided. Depleted, still dazed, she drew a fist against her mouth to choke down a sob of despair. Morgan stirred, and his hand moved to touch her hair, but he slept on.
She knew she would not sleep again this night. When the Dream or the Feeling woke her, it was impossible to return to the peace of sleep. She would lie awake in the dimly lighted bedroom, listening to the rambling old mansion creak and shudder around her. Or, if she grew too restless to stay abed, she would rise and walk the halls or go to the chapel and try to pray.
For now, though, she was reluctant to leave the comforting sound of Morganâs breathing, the safe haven of his bed.
What did it all mean, the evil dream and the poisonous feelings that continued to cause her so much anguish? Of all the night terrors she had endured since the attack, she thought these must surely be the most deadly. Not only did they rob her of hours of much-needed rest, but they spoiled her days as well, leaving her anxious and impatient. Of late, she had even begun to feel physically ill throughout the day.
She was failing her family, disappointing the entire household.
But what to do?
Sometimes she feared she had been stricken with some dreadful illness of the mind. Perhaps because of the dark chasm where no memory dweltâ¦perhaps because of the terrible thing that had been done to her.
Would it grow worse? Would she eventually lose her mind altogether?
Again she shuddered.
She looked at Morgan, studying his strong, beloved face in the candle-glow. Then the tears came, spilling silently from her eyes.
He had suffered enough on her behalf, this good and noble man. She must give him no more pain, no more anguish of the soul. She would keep her silence; she would endure.
Carefully, she turned onto her side, away from him. She would not ever have him know that in the long hours of the night his wife lay weeping beside him.
8
A Casting of Shadows
For back to the Past, though the thought brings woe,
My memory ever glidesâ¦
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN (1803â1849)
O n the morning of Finolaâs birthday, Morgan was enduring a Latin recitation by one of the OâHiggins twins, at the same time keeping a watchful eye on the other scholars in the room.
He was impatient, not only with the boy standing across the desk from him, stumbling over his lesson, but even more with the subject itself. He detested the studyâand the teachingâof Latin. It was too rigid, too precise a language for
She shuddered at the sound of the rain blowing against the house. Rain at night always seemed such a desolate sound, like the mournful drumbeat of a troubled heart.
Another strong blast of wind-driven rain hurled itself between the battlements outside and slammed against the window. Finola cringed, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment.
It wasnât the Dream that had awakened her this time, but the Feeling. A hideous, bleak sense of isolation, as if she were trapped in the vault of night itself. The darkness was dense and glacial, unyielding, bringing with it an overwhelming sense of betrayal that swept over her like a tidal wave of despair.
Again she had heard the faraway sound of musicâ¦strange, high-pitchedâalmost shrillâyet elusive, like the night wind sighing through the trees.
At the last she had felt the hands close about her throatâ¦suffocating herâ¦crushing the breath from herâ¦stealing her lifeâ¦
And then, as always, she awakened with a start, panicked, terrified, filled with a sense of revulsion, as if she had been touched by something unclean.
The nausea came upon her in a wave, the sudden wash of sickness. Bracing herself, she resisted the urge to spring out of bed and escape the room. It would soon pass, as it always did.
Finally she was able to draw in one steadying breath, then another. Little by little the trembling subsided. Depleted, still dazed, she drew a fist against her mouth to choke down a sob of despair. Morgan stirred, and his hand moved to touch her hair, but he slept on.
She knew she would not sleep again this night. When the Dream or the Feeling woke her, it was impossible to return to the peace of sleep. She would lie awake in the dimly lighted bedroom, listening to the rambling old mansion creak and shudder around her. Or, if she grew too restless to stay abed, she would rise and walk the halls or go to the chapel and try to pray.
For now, though, she was reluctant to leave the comforting sound of Morganâs breathing, the safe haven of his bed.
What did it all mean, the evil dream and the poisonous feelings that continued to cause her so much anguish? Of all the night terrors she had endured since the attack, she thought these must surely be the most deadly. Not only did they rob her of hours of much-needed rest, but they spoiled her days as well, leaving her anxious and impatient. Of late, she had even begun to feel physically ill throughout the day.
She was failing her family, disappointing the entire household.
But what to do?
Sometimes she feared she had been stricken with some dreadful illness of the mind. Perhaps because of the dark chasm where no memory dweltâ¦perhaps because of the terrible thing that had been done to her.
Would it grow worse? Would she eventually lose her mind altogether?
Again she shuddered.
She looked at Morgan, studying his strong, beloved face in the candle-glow. Then the tears came, spilling silently from her eyes.
He had suffered enough on her behalf, this good and noble man. She must give him no more pain, no more anguish of the soul. She would keep her silence; she would endure.
Carefully, she turned onto her side, away from him. She would not ever have him know that in the long hours of the night his wife lay weeping beside him.
8
A Casting of Shadows
For back to the Past, though the thought brings woe,
My memory ever glidesâ¦
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN (1803â1849)
O n the morning of Finolaâs birthday, Morgan was enduring a Latin recitation by one of the OâHiggins twins, at the same time keeping a watchful eye on the other scholars in the room.
He was impatient, not only with the boy standing across the desk from him, stumbling over his lesson, but even more with the subject itself. He detested the studyâand the teachingâof Latin. It was too rigid, too precise a language for
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