“Not at all. You were an excellent subject. Limited amnesia is not rare in such cases.” She noted that her words emerged without the quaver she’d feared. If he wondered how he had wakened in such a compromising position, he was too much the gentleman to say so. He showed no indication of repeating his previous behavior, or any consciousness of his most amazing claims.
“Yes,” she said, smoothing her bodice. “The groundwork has been laid. I understand more clearly how I might help you.”
Unease appeared briefly in his eyes. “Just what did I say?”
“I am your doctor. All you said is held in confidence. I shall not judge you, Quentin.”
“Then there was something to judge.” He sighed. “I know my life has hardly been a model of rectitude…”
She was on firm ground again. “Sit down, Quentin. There is one thing I do wish to discuss. You must tell me if the subject distresses you.”
He braced himself with his hands on the edge of the chaise. “Go on. I’m ready.”
“Have you ever heard the word… lycanthropy?”
He burst into a laugh, and kept laughing for a full half-minute.
“Forgive me,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes. “What exactly did I tell you?”
“You told me that you are a loup-garou. A werewolf.”
He caught his laugh before it could break free again. “How very amusing. I appear to be quite imaginative while hypnotized. Do you think I missed my calling as a writer of Gothic tales for hot-blooded young ladies?”
Johanna stood and paced to her desk, as if movement alone could calm her racing thoughts. In her experience, subjects under hypnosis could not easily lie. Whatever her doubts about his state after Harper’s interruption, she knew he’d been deeply entranced during the first period of questioning. His admission had been real… then.
Was this the delusion that led him to drink—one that consumed his unconscious but did not reach his waking mind? How had such a thing come about? What had brought so strange a belief into existence?
“What do you know of lycanthropy?” she asked, swinging to face him.
“As much as anyone, I suppose.” He shrugged. “Tales of Gypsy curses and witches donning wolf skins.” His eyes twinkled. “Do you wish to search my person for a wolf skin, Johanna?”
No, he certainly was not aware of what he’d said while hypnotized. The issue must be explored in future sessions. She felt sure it was important. Most important.
Legends of werewolves were filled with blood and death. Quentin was incapable of violence, but the image of the beast must have great symbolic meaning, the root of everything that troubled him.
“That will not be necessary,” she said. “I believe our meeting is over for today, and I wish to consider the results of this session.” Including my own behavior. “I did not deal directly with your desire for alcohol. Do you feel any need to drink?”
“Not unless it be from your sweet lips.”
Was this simply more trifling gallantry, or had he some memory of his recent advances? She was not prepared to face the consequences of confronting him on the subject. Not while she was still so rattled by the experience. And so ashamed.
“Well, then,” she said, ignoring his comment. “You may do as you like until luncheon. Harper requires my attention—”
“Is something wrong with him?”
“His illness may have entered a new phase, and I have neglected him.” Because of you.
“Then I won’t keep you.”
The moment he was out of the room, Johanna let her rubbery legs give way and sat down, hard. She touched her lips. They still throbbed from Quentin’s kisses. Her whole body throbbed. In spite of her thorough knowledge of the biological processes involved, she wouldn’t soon be able to dismiss the experience as a mere consequence of her profession.
All the theorizing in the world, all the calm admissions of physical attraction, were no match for the reality.
She had violated the unwritten rules pronouncing that a physician must not become involved with a patient. She could easily have taken control by pushing him away and ending the session—making him understand that such contact between them was entirely inappropriate.