She couldn’t imagine such a thing. But it would be the height of folly to provoke Quentin now. His illness was not merely dipsomania, possibly derived from experiences in the army. His response when she’d asked about his childhood suggested memories he wished to avoid. And now this…
“As you say, Quentin,” she said, postponing further speculation. “I think we’ve done enough for one meeting. We shall explore these claims tomorrow, after—”
A shrieking wail came from somewhere beyond the door, rising into a bellow and falling abruptly silent. Johanna shot up from her chair.
“Harper,” she whispered. “Quentin, please continue to rest. I’ll return shortly.”
He didn’t answer. She opened the door and strode out into the hallway. Irene, Oscar, and Mrs. Daugherty stood at one end, staring toward Harper’s room. Lewis poked his head out from his own room and ducked in again, carefully shutting the door.
“It will be all right,” Johanna said. “Mrs. Daugherty, please take Oscar and Irene into the parlor.”
With the same care she’d use approaching a wild animal, Johanna opened Harper’s door.
He was in his usual place by the window, as if nothing had happened. The only change was that he no longer sat still, but rocked gently, forward and back, with his hands clasped between his knees. She moved closer to study his face. A scream such as she’d heard normally meant he was entering a period of violent mania, as he’d done three times since coming to her and Papa.
If that was the case, handling him would become much more difficult. But he continued to rock, ignoring her. It seemed safe to leave him just long enough to bring Quentin from his trance and send him to luncheon with the others.
Quentin had consumed entirely too many of her thoughts since his arrival. It was almost a relief to have another patient take precedence.
But Quentin wasn’t finished with her. When she reentered her office, he was sitting on the edge of the chaise, staring up at the ceiling. He looked toward her, his cinnamon eyes glazed and unfocused, as if still in the trance. Harper’s cry hadn’t brought him out as she would have expected.
“I like this room,” he said dreamily. “It smells good. Like you.”
It was definitely time to finish. “Quentin, listen to the sound of my voice. In a few moments I shall be bringing you out of your hypnotic state. Do you want to remember what we have discussed today?”
He swung his feet to the floor and strolled toward her. “I want to remember you.” He lifted his hand to brush her face. “Johanna.”
His touch was intimate. She felt a physical pang, as if he’d penetrated her flesh.
Her first impression was incorrect. Surely he was awake now. Pretending to be otherwise, though why he should wish—
“I like being with you,” he said. “More than any other woman.”
“That is enough. Our session is finished, and—”
“You like me, Johanna,” he said, circling the pad of his thumb around her chin. “More than any other man.”
She opened her mouth to deny it and caught her breath. “Go back to the chaise, Quentin.” If he were under hypnosis, he would do as she asked, and if he were deceiving her, he’d do the same or be forced to surrender his pretense. “Sit down.”
He dropped his hand, began to obey and then stopped, clutching at his head. “You despise me,” he said. He started clumsily for the far wall, banged his hip into her desk, and stumbled as if he hadn’t seen the obstacle.
Somnambulism. Even he would not take the game so far. And if he were still entranced, he and his mind were at their most vulnerable.
She clenched her fists at her sides. “I do not despise you, Quentin.”
He turned about, his gaze moving this way and that as if he couldn’t find her. “You said… you would help me.”
“I will. Have no fear, Quentin. I will.”
He smiled, like a glorious sunrise. “Yes.” He came to her slowly. His hand found its way to her shoulder, slid around to cup the back of her neck. “My Valkyrie,” he said, staring at her mouth. “You’re so beautiful.”