A Lady Under Siege

11

Meghan was at her desk in her little cubicle on the eleventh floor, scrolling through the font choices of a new design software, when Jan stepped in and asked, “How are you doing?”

“Not great.”

“Poor thing. How’s Betsy?”

“I haven’t told her about Seth and baby on the way, if that’s what you mean. One thing at a time. I think she’s got a crush on our neighbour.”

“Your neighbour. The drunk?”

“The same.”

“I saw him once, the day you moved in. He waved over the fence. I thought he was kind of cute. Shaggy and cute.”

“In the daylight he can be charming, it’s at night he’s trouble.” She told Jan all about the picnic table incident, and couldn’t help but laugh, describing how she’d watched two drunken lovers zipped in their sleeping bag tumble off the table into the dirt. “They were rolling around on the ground like cats in a sack, going ouch ouch ouch, but in a silly, giggly way, and then they wriggled out, and I swear to God, steam was coming off their bodies.”

“They were naked?”

“Of course they were naked. And then they just ran in the house, laughing their heads off like fools.”

“Wow.” Just picturing it put a big grin on Jan’s face.

“I know. Happy, carefree, drunken fools. I actually felt a bit jealous. She looked so beautiful by moonlight. Like out of a fairy tale. A nymph from a fairy tale.”

“Speaking of which, how’s your Lady under siege doing?”

Jan was her closest confidante, the only friend with whom Meghan had shared the whole story of her dreams of Sylvanne and the siege. Jan’s reaction had been more amusement than concern—she treated it like a soap opera, eager for each new plot twist. “Come on, out with it. Something’s happened,” Jan cajoled her.

“She’s left the castle. Gerald is dead,” Meghan blurted out. And suddenly a surge of grief welled within her, Sylvanne’s genuine grief at the loss of her husband, and she began to cry uncontrollably, sitting there at her desk. Through her tears she managed to say, “This is crazy.”

To her relief Jan was supportive. “It’s getting serious,” she said. She dabbed Meghan’s eyes with a tissue and then stood behind her chair, rubbing her shoulders until the sobs subsided. “Maybe you need some help. I do know a therapist— someone who’d be perfect, and I can help get you in,” Jan suggested.

“I’d like that, I think,” Meghan said. “I’d like some answers. Or even just to talk.

“Good. Her name is Anne Billings. She’s my brother’s ex-wife but I’ve always liked her, a lot more than my brother actually, and she and I stayed friends after they split. You’ll like her too, she’s super smart but very down to earth. She has a private practice but she’s also a professor at the university, and these dreams of yours sound right up her alley—her PhD was all about Wicca, or witchcraft—apparently in academic circles she’s made a name for herself that way, using psychology to study mysticism and the paranormal. She’s at least sympathetic to stuff like that—if any psychologist is going to take a real interest, it’ll be her. I’ll call her for you, see what I can do.”