The Hidden Years Read Free

all internal.
Outwardly…'
    Sage glared at him. Did he really think she was so weak,
so self-absorbed that it was fear of what she might
see
that kept her chained here outside the ward? And then her anger died as
swiftly as it had been born. It wasn't
his
fault;
what could he know of the complexities of her relationship with her
mother?
She
didn't really understand them
herself. She pushed open the door and walked into the ward. It was
small, with only four beds, and bristling with equipment.
    Her mother was the ward's only occupant. She lay on one of
the high, narrow beds, surrounded by machinery.
    How tiny she looked, Sage marvelled as she stared down at
her. Her once naturally fair hair, now discreetly tinted blonde, was
hidden out of sight beneath a cap; her mother's skin, so white and
pale, and so different from her own with its decidedly olive tint,
could have been the skin of a woman in her late forties, not her early
sixties, Sage reflected as she absorbed an outer awareness of the tubes
connected to her mother's body, which she deliberately held at bay as
she concentrated instead on the familiar and less frightening aspects
of her still figure.
    Her breathing was laboured and difficult, but the eyes
fixed on her own hadn't changed—cool, clear, all-seeing,
all-knowing… a shade of grey which could deepen to lavender
or darken to slate depending on her mood.
    She was frowning now, but it was not the quick, light
frown with which Sage was so familiar, the frown that suggested that
whoever had caused it had somehow not just failed but disappointed as
well. How many times had that frown marked the progress of her own
life, turning her heart to lead, shredding her pride, reducing her to
rebellious, helpless rage?
    This frown, though, was different, deeper, darker, the
eyes that watched her full of unfamiliar shadows.
    'Sage…'
    Was it instinct alone that made her cover her mother's
hand with her own, that made her sit down at her side, and say as
evenly as she could, 'I'm here, Mother…'?
    Mother…what a cold, distant word that was, how
devoid of warmth and feeling. As a small child she had called her
'Mummy'. David, ten years her senior, had preferred the affectionately
teasing 'Ma', but then David had been permitted so much more licence,
had been given so much more love… Stop it, she warned
herself. She wasn't here to dwell on the past. The past was over.
    'It's all right,' she whispered softly. 'It's all right,
Mother. You're going to be fine…'
    Just for a moment the grey eyes lightened and mocked. They
seemed to say that they knew her platitude for exactly what it was,
making Sage once more feel a child in the presence of an adult.
    'Sage, there's something I want you to do…' The
words were laboured and strained. Sage had to bend closer to the bed to
catch them. 'My diaries, in my desk at Cottingdean… You must
read them… All of you…'
    She stopped speaking and closed her eyes while Sage stared
at her. What on earth was her mother talking about? What diaries? Had
her mind perhaps been affected by her injuries?
    She stared uncertainly at the woman in the bed, as her
mother opened her eyes and demanded fiercely, 'Promise me,
Sage… Promise me you will do as I say… Promise
me…'
    Dutifully, docilely almost, Sage swallowed and whispered,
'I promise…' and then, unable to stop herself, she cried
out, 'But why me…? Why did you ask for me? Why not Faye?
She's so much closer to you…'
    The grey eyes seemed to mock her again. Without her
knowing it, her fingers had curled tightly round the hand she was still
holding.
    'Faye doesn't have your ruthlessness, your
discipline… Neither does she have your strength.' The voice
dropped to a faint sigh.
    Beneath her fingers, Sage felt the thready pulse flicker
and falter and a fear greater than anything she had ever known, a fear
that overwhelmed anger, resentment, pain and even love poured through
her and she cried out harshly, 'Mother…no,' without