Accordingly, she paced the woods for an hour or so to cool off, then returned to find Gregory sitting by the fire and looking very dejected. He looked up and said, "I must apologize for the discourtesy with which I took leave of my senses."
"I am glad to hear it." She glared down at him. "You must fear me mightily to have sent your mind sailing and left me a lifeless statue."
"Perhaps it is fear," Gregory sighed, "but I am determined to treat you with respect."
"Whether I wish it or no? Fie, sir! What manner of man are you who can spurn a lady so?"
"One who cannot resist a challenge, I fear," Gregory lamented.
That struck too deep a chord within Finister. She snapped back, "You certainly should have! Resist your pride, not my favors! I am so embarrassed I shall fear to offer them again ever!"
The scoundrel should have looked appalled, and tried to, but he had the audacity to be relieved beneath it! Sizzling with anger, Finister said, "Well, there is no help for it. I would have made a man of you, but it seems the material is lacking. Come, let us mount, since you will not, and ride where your reason takes us, since you will not be guided by passion!"
"Even so," Gregory sighed, and stood up, reaching for her hand.
She snatched it away and stalked to her horse. She heard him coming quickly behind her but snapped, "You need not aid me to mount, sir!" and set her foot in the stirrup, then sprang up to the saddle, curled her knee about the sidehorn, and shook the reins. The palfrey walked away, and Gregory had to scramble to mount and join her.
Thus it went for the rest of the day, Finister carping, snapping, and shrewish, insulting Gregory in every way she could, but the sheepish fool only rode there, returning meek replies that were neither agreement nor contradiction, and never once during that long afternoon did he show enough spirit to lash back.
She might as well have been made of wood herself! There could be no question about it—he had no real regard for her, did not care enough about her to grow angry. He must have lacked even the male drive to be irritated—either that, or he was sick of her and eager to be rid of her.
So that evening, when once again he sat down by the fire and went into his trance, Finister threw up her hands and stalked off into the forest again, thinking bloody thoughts and determined never more to come near him without overwhelming lethal force at her back.
She had access to the computer and all its data banks! Gwen almost went limp with relief and realized that she hadn't really believed she could win this contest, pass the examination that no monk had managed for five long centuries. But pass it she had, and the opportunity, once gained, had to be exploited. She pulled herself together and phrased her first inquiry very carefully—the question could not be too broad or she would reveal that her knowledge was out of date and lose all she had gained. "What are the most recent findings concerning the mechanisms by which the brain produces hallucinations?"
The computer launched into an explanation of surges of neural currents, activators and inhibitors, and malformations in new brain cells. Gwen hung on its every word, afraid to lose a syllable—and hoping she could come up with just as effective a question about child abuse, mood disorders, paranoia, and insecurity.
She did.
When it was over, she was exhausted, trembling—and understood Moraga far better than she wanted. She found herself repelled by the tortuous ways in which the foster parents who had raised the orphan must have deliberately twisted her mind and ravaged her emotions. "I. . . thank you, computer. I will strive to make this information benefit as many others as I may."
"You are welcome—to any information at any time," the computer responded. "Look upward, please."
Too exhausted to wonder why, Gwen looked up almost involuntarily. A bright light winked next to the blue one. She flinched, looked down quickly—and just managed to see the afterimage as it faded.
"There is no damage to your vision," the computer assured her, "but I have now recorded your retinal patterns. If at any future time you wish to consult me, you need only sit in that chair, look upward, and I will respond."
" 'Tis . . . good to know. Again I thank you."
"And again you are welcome. May you have a pleasant journey."
The blue light winked off and Gwen started to rise—then had to grasp at the arm of the chair to avoid falling. Brother Milton and the Abbot were at her side in an instant. "I thank thee, gentlemen," she murmured. "I will ... be well presently."
"Aye, praise Heaven," the Abbot said, "but first you needs must dine and rest."
"There is a chamber for such uses, only a little way away," Brother Milton assured her. "Come, good lady."
Gwen let them steer her toward the elevator, protesting, "The guest house . . . 'tis quite adequate. ..."
'Tis a long, long climb away, milady, and thou art exhausted," the Abbot said with gentle firmness. "Thou hast sat in converse with the computer for twelve hours without pause."
"Twelve hours?" Gwen looked up in disbelief.
The Abbot nodded as he ushered her into the elevator. " 'Twas amazing."
"Oh! Milord Abbot—I am sorry to so long detain you. . . ."
"It was mine honor—and my joy, to see one at long last find a means of speaking with the daunting mechanism. When all is well with you, milady, I may ask you to return and pose certain questions to it."
"I. ..shall be delighted. ..."
The elevator door opened and they escorted her down the hall. "There is a question of propriety," the Abbot explained, "and I know the abilities of your children and husband. Can you summon one of your kin?"
Gwen considered, clinging to his arm a moment. Rod would be too much alarmed, too solicitous, and she had left Cordelia to watch over Gregory. That left only one. She frowned in concentration a moment; then air boomed, and Geoffrey rushed to support her. "Mother! What have they done to you?"
"Naught. I have done it to myself; they have but cared for me." Gwen gestured at the door ahead. Geoffrey looked up, startled, and ushered her toward it. "I must rest, my son. Do thou stand watch over me."
"With delight!"
"Bless you, my son." Gwen turned back in the doorway, inclining her head toward the Abbot and the friar. "I thank you, gentlemen."
'Twas our honor. Good night, milady."
"Good night," Geoffrey seconded. "I thank you, milord— and you, brother." Then he turned to half-carry his mother into the cabin.
Deep in his trance, Gregory watched Peregrine leave with disappointment. He knew that when he emerged from the trance he would be buried under an avalanche of sorrow. His calisthenics, his lessons in Finister's mind, his crash course in lovemaking—all had gone for naught, cancelled by his timidity. Of course, Finister had not yet undergone her own therapy, but as far as Gregory could see, he was no more attractive to her now than he had been before. He had failed, that was the plain and simple truth of it, and when he surfaced, he would know himself for the worm he was.
Still, it had to be faced. He knew Finister quite well now, knew that if he stayed here she would come back with a dozen or more ruthless killers to help her slay him. He was proof against them, of course, but accidents could happen, and he had no wish to kill anyone. He would have to brace himself for a more direct onslaught, preferably by being gone.