SECRET OF THE WOLF By Susan Krinard

“Very well, then,” she said. “Have you any further questions?”

“What is your battle strategy, Johanna?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your plan to fight my demons of dipsomania.”

“It is quite simple. Once I have put you into a hypnotic state, when your mind is open, I shall ask you a few basic questions to determine the depth of your trance. If that is sufficient, I shall ask you more specific questions that have a greater bearing on your condition.”

“Such as what drives me to drink. Can’t you ask me that without my being in a trance?”

“A part of your mind is in hiding, Quentin,” she said slowly. “It protects you from those things you do not want to see… or remember.”

Quentin gripped the sides of the chaise as if it were a flimsy raft floating in the midst of a sea of hungry sharks. “Perhaps there’s a good reason I don’t remember.”

She gazed at him earnestly, the passion bright in her face. “Can the reason be good if it causes you pain and suffering? If it drives you to risk your life? No.” She shook her head. “There is still so much we do not comprehend about the mind, and how the brain and body work together. But I believe that much insanity is created by a kind of… separation from one’s own true self. If we could only make the self whole again, insanity would be cured. If a man can see himself clearly in the mirror of his own mind, and accept what he sees, he is free.”

She spoke with such conviction, such utter certainty. “You’ll… plunder my memory like an archeologist digging for ancient pot shards,” he said with a laugh. “I hope my brain is filled with more than earth and fragments of crockery.”

She didn’t return his smile. “It contains more than you or I or anyone could ever know. But it may reveal, under hypnosis, what it cannot do when you are fully conscious.”

Surely she couldn’t perceive the depth of his fear, or hear the drumming of his heart? A woman of her strength would find little to admire in a coward, a man without the courage to overcome his weaknesses—no matter how tolerant she was of the truly mad.

Quentin widened his eyes in an absurd pantomime of terror. “You’ll know all my secrets,” he whispered. “I shall be overcome with chagrin.”

“As your doctor, I would never reveal what I learn to anyone. I shall be honest with you, always.” She paused and looked down at her hands. “The choice must be yours. I might simply attempt to convince your mind that you have no need for drink, and go no further. My father was very successful with such techniques… in effect suggesting to the open mind that its incorrect assumptions are mistaken, and lead it to change the behavior of the body.”

Quentin braced himself against a premature wave of relief. “But?”

“But even if I succeed, the thing that causes you to drink will still be there, untouched.” She held his gaze. “Do you understand?”

He thought he understood all too well. He’d have to give up on himself, for Johanna never would. She was that generous, and that remarkable. But he’d recognized that from the beginning.

“If nothing else,” he said with false bravado, “I can help you develop your new methods.”

Her cheeks reddened. “I am sorry if you think my motives are—”

“No.” Impulsively he slid from the chaise and went to her, knelt before her chair and took her hands in his. “I have nothing to lose, Johanna. I’ll be your willing subject.”

The color in her face remained high, and her hands tensed under his fingers. “Quentin—”

“Shhhh.” He kissed first one hand and then the other. “You might as well turn my brain inside out. You’ve already done it to my heart.”

She sucked in her breath. He could hear her heart hammering against her ribs, feel the pulse throb in her wrists, blood and body giving the lie to her mask of composure. “Quentin, you are my patient. We have known each other only a few days. It is not uncommon for patients to think themselves… fond of their physicians, particularly when they have come close to death.”