Page 22 of A Gathering Storm

“What? What do you remember?”

Nick said, almost wonderingly, “Ma told me she’d speak to the ghost and tell him he must leave me alone. She said I’d never see him again.”

“And did you?”

“No. I never did.” After another moment, he added, “It turned out I was ill that day. It was probably just the fever that made me imagine it.” But even as he said the words, he wasn’t sure they were true.

That thought unsettled him, and he decided to let the memory of the ghost go, turning away from it. Immediately, he felt calmer. He concentrated on the feel of the chair beneath him, the leather-upholstered seat under his thighs, the wooden arms under his hands, the chairback cradling his shoulders. He felt it all, but he felt too as though he floated. Like a dandelion clock drifting on the air. Or maybe a kite, tethered to the world only by Sir Edward Fitzwilliam’s unmistakable voice.

Was it strange he didn’t want this to end?

“I think that’s enough for now, Nicholas,” Sir Edward said, as though he’d followed Nick’s train of thought. “Rest for a few minutes. Then, when you’re ready, open your eyes, and wake up.”

Nick almost laughed. Rest indeed! He wasn’t the least bit tired. He’d never felt so awake.

But yes, perhaps he would drift on the breeze a little longer before he opened his eyes.

Ward watched Nicholas Hearn sleep. He’d slid into a light slumber just a minute or so after they’d stopped talking. Whereas before, he’d been sitting upright, with the curious alertness of the hypnotised subject, all inward-focused, now his whole body was relaxed, his head lolling to one side as he breathed, deep and slow.

Ward let his gaze travel over the man. He was not conventionally handsome, but he was very attractive. There was something about his stark, fierce features that drew one’s attention. He had something of the hunter about him. Something intense and single-minded. Perhaps it was that disconcerting silver gaze, veiled now by thick black lashes as he dozed.

Nicholas—it was already impossible to think of him as Hearn after what had just passed between them—had surprised Ward with his easy slip into the trance state. The man’s plain reluctance to be here had made Ward wonder if he would go under at all, but it seemed he’d reconciled himself to the idea in his own mind, because after a little while, he’d surrendered willingly enough. He’d answered Ward’s questions with reasonable frankness too. There had been some resistance, of course. Notably his refusal to even attempt to try to reach his mother, but there had been surprising revelations too. Not least that Godfrey Roscarrock was his natural grandfather.

That had shocked Ward.

Ward wondered whether Nicholas would remember what he’d shared when he awoke. Ward had hypnotised over a dozen subjects himself now, and he’d witnessed many more demonstrations by others, including the great Braid himself. In his experience, subjects tended to remember what they said, on the whole, though Jago Jones, he recalled, had not. Or, at least, that had been his story.

If Nicholas remembered, would he be mortified? Angry to have revealed so much? Or would he take it in his stride? Ward hoped he would not be distressed. He had already caused Nicholas Hearn enough grief.

At last, Nicholas stirred, shifting slightly in the chair before slowly opening his eyes. He gazed at Ward unseeingly for several long moments, then blinked and seemed to come back to himself.

“I was asleep,” he said, sounding surprised.

“Yes, for almost forty minutes.”

Nicholas’s eyes widened. “I wasn’t even tired.”

“It’s not uncommon,” Ward assured him. “How do you feel?”

“Fine.” Nicholas frowned and smiled at the same time, an oddly charming expression that made him look puzzled and pleased all at once. “Actually, better than fine. I feel good. As though I slept a whole night through.” He glanced at Ward, curious. “Is that usual?”

“For some people, yes. Tell me—do you remember any of it?”

Nicholas frowned, thinking. “Yes, I believe I spoke of my mother—” He broke off, closing his eyes. “I refused to try to contact her, didn’t I?”

“Yes.”

Nicholas shook his head. “Sorry, I didn’t—”

“Please don’t apologise,” Ward said hurriedly. “It must come freely, I think. I would certainly not wish to force the issue, even if that were possible. We can try again next time.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Nicholas sat up properly and set about straightening his clothes.

After a moment, Ward said, “If you don’t mind me asking, Nicholas—” He halted, realising he’d used the man’s given name again. “Sorry. Mr. Hearn, I mean.”

Nicholas looked at him. He was frowning slightly, remembering perhaps. Then his frown cleared and he said, “You called me Nicholas when I was in the trance.”

Ward nodded. “You became distressed at one point and were not responding to me, so I took the liberty of using your given name in order to get your attention. It seemed to work, but you had not invited me to use it, and for that I apologise.”