The Almighty Dominance novel Chapter 791

Serena Tiffany held up her hands in the morning light and looked at her fingers.

"Ten," she said. Her voice was low and rough, like a door that hadn't been opened for a long time. "I have ten. I'd forgotten."

Then she looked past her hands, at the window. Morning light lay on the bare floorboards in a long gold square, with the shadow of the bars across it. She looked at it the way other people look at the sea.

Her mother used to read her an old poet at bedtime.

Had I not seen the Sun / I could have borne the shade / But Light a newer Wilderness / My Wilderness has made.

At nine, Serena had thought it was a sad poem. Now she understood that it was a warning.

I've seen it now, she thought. Nobody puts me back in the dark. Not ever again.

Around the narrow bed in the tower, much too thin, long dark hair loose on the pillow, she looked up at them.

The family stood in a half-circle and didn't breathe: the Baroness with her cane, Pauline, Cordelia with her hand over her mouth, Patricia white as paper at the back. Gideon stood by the door, crying without making any sound.

Marissa stood beside him with her mouth open, which for Marissa was the same thing.

"Sweetheart," Gideon whispered. "Sweetheart, can you — "

"I can see you, Father." Serena turned her head towards the door, gentle. "Don't cry. I can see you crying now. That's worse."

She looked at him a moment longer. "Your hair's gone grey."

"It was a long two years," Gideon said hoarsely.

"Is she going to need glasses?" Marissa asked nobody, anxious. "Who pays for the glasses?"

"Serena," the Baroness said sharply. "Look at me."

Serena looked at her.

"You've got older, Grandmother," Serena said calmly.

Cordelia made a noise like a kettle.

"Who was in this room?" Serena asked quietly. She was frowning now, turning her head, breathing in. "Last night. Somebody was here."

"Nobody was here, darling," Pauline said smoothly. "The door was locked. It's always locked."

"Someone was here," Serena said, stubborn. She breathed in again. "It smells of cedar."

The family looked at one another. Every one of them sniffed the air, and none of them smelled anything at all.

…

Dr. Osmond Reeve arrived at half past seven, out of breath, with his bag.

He shone his little torch into her left eye, then her right, then her left again, and his face went the colour of cold porridge.

"Follow my finger," he said, nervous.

Serena followed it. Left, right, up, down. When he stopped, she looked past it, straight at him.

"Your hands are shaking, Doctor," Serena said flatly.

He dropped the torch.

"Well?" said the Baroness impatiently.

"A remarkable response," he said.

"To what?" the Baroness asked coldly.

"To my course, Baroness. The drops." His voice steadied as he went. "Two years of patience. I always said it would be slow. Medicine rewards patience. I confess, even I didn't expect it to be so... complete."

"Drops!" Cordelia squealed, and clutched Pauline's arm. "Pauline, did you hear? Drops!"

"Your drops," said the Baroness slowly.

"I'd hoped," Reeve said humbly. "I never promised. But I'd hoped."

"How much were they, Doctor? These drops?" she asked dryly.

"Forty dollars a bottle, Baroness," he said, eager. "One bottle a month."

"Nine hundred and sixty dollars," said the Baroness, "for two eyes and a voice."

For a long moment the old woman looked at him. Then she nodded, once.

"Name your f*e, Doctor," she said.

"Oh, Baroness, I couldn't possibly — " he stammered.

"You could. You will. A f*e for life, and a room in this house whenever you want one." She rapped her cane on the floorboards. "And not one word of this outside these walls. Not to the staff, not to the city. Not to the idiot."

"Of course, Baroness," Reeve breathed. "Of course."

…

At four o'clock, Serena walked into the long drawing room on her own feet.

She wore dark glasses, because the light still hurt. She was as thin as a rail.

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