Because I do not think he is who he says he is.
Her breathing grew ragged. She rose suddenly, trying to climb from the bed. Sally held her back, but Catherine fought her with desperate strength.
“I must go,” she cried, “I must find him, the man who knows! I must ask!”
She shrugged free, darting for the door, wild with fever.
Catherine ran then.
She could not remain still. The call to action rang within her like a bell. If she were facing her last night on earth, she would not spend it writhing in a sick-bed. She would fight for the truth. She would be free!
Sally’s voice rang out from somewhere behind her. The maid stumbled while Catherine’s legs were driven by the fury of the feverish.
She tore open the door and dashed into the night.
“Your Grace!”
She was swallowed by the night.
Gideon had been watching the house through the trees. A pale light illuminated it from the moon above, but it could not touch the deep shadows in which he rested. The ground was damp beneath him.
His senses came to full alertness when he heard raised voices from within the house. The golden glow of the lamplight was crossed and re-crossed by flitting shadows. Then it was flicking rapidly through the house, showing in window after window.
The door burst open, and Catherine came sprinting out. Her maid appeared next, calling for her, lamp raised high above her head.
Gideon surged to his feet as he snatched up a nearby lamp and sprinted in the direction of his wife. By the time he reached the treeline, it felt like an eternity had passed since she had disappeared into its midnight embrace.
He wrestled with his frustration—his need to act. He slowed, knowing that he could run into a tree branch and knock himself out, even with the light of the lamp. Peering into the darkness,lamp held high, he scanned shrewdly for any sign of her passage instead.
“Catherine!” he called, but heard only the frantic rustle of branches and leaves in response.
An owl hooted in the far off, and something small barged its way through the undergrowth. He felt the wind of bat wings above his head. A fox yipped.
“Catherine! Answer me!” he shouted into the dark once more.
Fear was a rat gnawing its way out of his chest, tearing at him from within. The sickness she was struggling with could stop her heart.
The woods at night were as treacherous as any bog or underwater current. Could be just as deadly. She could break her neck tripping over a root. Could fall into a gully and crack her head on a rock. She could fall into a stream two feet deep and drown!
“Catherine!” he yelled, fear making his voice strident.
“Stay away!”
He froze, whirling in the direction he thought he had heard the voice coming from, listening intently.
“Catherine. It is Aaron!” he said after a moment.
“No!”
That single word rooted Gideon to the spot. Was it a denial of his identity? Or a denial of reality in general? Was it her body craving the poppy juice, the last of it playing hell with her senses?
“Where are you?” Gideon said, lowering his voice, sensing that she was close by.
Silence.
He took careful steps in the direction the voice had emanated from. At last, he found her crouched among the roots of an oak, her body trembling like a feral feline.
She looked up at him, eyes wide.
