A Merciless Affection

Chapter 14: Your Chains Are Still Mine

By the time he followed her through the Floo, she was lifting aside the unicorn tapestry. To her frustration, but not her surprise, the wall was solid, the doorway closed. He strode across the room.

"It isn't extraordinarily difficult," he snapped. "Have you never bothered to pay attention?"

"I had this sense," she replied, giving each word its own little twist, "that you appreciated your privacy."

"Well, you put paid to that, didn't you?" Before she could more than open her mouth in indignation, he said, "Now watch and remember." He tapped the pattern slowly on the stone blocks. "Then four protective herbs in alphabetical order: betony, blackthorn, elder, rosemary. But," he said, "you advance the series by one each time. So, this time...elder, rosemary, betony, blackthorn." The doorway obediently appeared. Heaving a sigh, Sarah passed through it. At the inner doorway, they went through the same procedure.

"So...Sarah is mistress of the keys," he said tartly, as they entered his room.

"Not all," she said, thinking of the wards on the outer doors.

"No," he said, as if daring her to ask him. "Not all."

Sarah did not rise to the bait. She had far grimmer things on her mind than passwords. Her trunk stood accusingly in the center of the floor. This was no nightmare; it was horribly, appallingly real.

"How could you do this to me?" The walls seemed to close in around her like a cell. "Why?!"

"It seems you left me with little other choice." He looked, inexplicably, as trapped as she felt.

"What?" She remembered his answer, the last time she had asked this question. "No you don't; don't try to blame this on me! I haven't asked for anything from you! And now you've left me with no choice." She turned from him, raising her hands to the sides of her head as if to hold it together against the thought: you're married to him. "I don't...want to be...my mother."

"And I'd rather you didn't become mine." The words were almost off-handedly sharp.

"What?" She turned, baffled.

But his demeanor shifted abruptly from introspective to commanding. Although he hadn't moved more than a step forward, he seemed to loom over her as if he had just stood to his full height.

"In light of this alteration in our relationship," he said, "I shall make a number of things extremely clear to you, Sarah. First: anything I choose to tell you will be told in my own time and own way. You will not plead or urge or wheedle for information or pry into my private things. Additionally, you will never attempt to tell me what to do or interfere with my personal business in any way. You will most certainly not nag me. And finally, if you wish to survive, you will do exactly as I tell you at all times and without question."

Sarah could not believe the speech she was hearing. Well, no, she could believe it, but.... Her own father had always given her mother plenty of lead, so that she only choked when she unexpectedly reached the end of it--that seemed to be the game he preferred--but other men of her father's acquaintance had kept a much tighter rein over their spouses. It should hardly be a surprise to find that Snape was that sort. But still, she was staggered.

"Do you understand me, Sarah?" he demanded.

Sarah's rage boiled over all of a sudden. She jerked the horrible ring from her finger. "I am not your bloody Slytherin property!" she screamed, and threw it at him.

He caught her before she got to the doorway, and there was a tussle of sorts as she struck out at him. "Don't you touch me!"

"Fine," he said, propelling her back into the room. In hopeless agony of spirit she flung herself down on the bed and, screaming wordlessly, curled into a ball around her knotted stomach muscles, her eyes streaming hot salt tears that burned her face like acid. She scarcely heard him moving about the room, unaware of his proximity until she heard his voice beside her. "I will not tolerate this!"

You'll bloody well have to, she thought dimly. But he forced her to sit up.

"Drink this," he said, pressing something to her lips. Her probable reaction was all too predictable; he moved the bottle out of the way before she could knock it from his hand.

Not poison, that would be too kind for him. The only thing she could think of that would be suitably cruel is if he made her drink the Gravixterminus now.

"You bastard," she gasped out, "you damnable bastard!"

"Look who's saying it," he snarled, giving her a jolting shake. "It's Dreamless Sleep, and you will drink it, no matter what I have to do to make you." He offered the bottle again.

She jerked it from his hand and, tempting as it was to smash it on the floor, she gulped it down, choking. She did smash it, then, the empty bottle shivering with a satisfying crash.

"There! Are you happy now?" She could feel the potion beginning its work, drawing the tendrils of her exhaustion together into a silken cord that grew fatter and fatter, weighing her down.

"No, Sarah, I am not happy," Snape growled. He drew her backwards onto the bed, cradling a body that was no longer able to resist him in his arms. "Bloody hell, to think my life should come to this."

Before she could think of any useful reply, she was fast asleep.

* * *

* * *

When Sarah opened her eyes, it took her a moment to work out where she was. She felt an instinctive surge of panic--she had fallen asleep in his bed...what time was it...why hadn't he woken her up so she could get back to...?

Oh.

The memory of how she had got here flowed down on her like a landslide. She lifted her hand to where she could see it...at least he hadn't forced the ring back onto her sleeping finger. She rolled over onto her back, a jab against her scalp reminding her of Professor McGonagall's hair clasp. Her dress robes, though rumpled, were no more disheveled than when she had lain down.

She was still trying to decide if it were worth getting up, and if she did whether the best course of action would be to look for a bottle of poison for herself, or to flee and beg mercy of Professor Dumbledore, or to sneak up on Snape and hex him six ways from Tuesday, when he appeared in the doorway to the workroom.

"I hope you've managed to regain some self-control," he said. His usual horrid self. He gestured at the bedside table with his wand, and a tray appeared.

"Breakfast?" she asked. She had no idea of the time, and no will to make any physical effort to find out.

"Only if the middle of the night is an appropriate time for breakfast."

"I slept all day?"

"Days," he said.

"You've kept me drugged?" Sarah sat up, her anger rushing back; it felt miserably stale.

"You were overwrought and exhausted, and the dose was a strong one. I haven't been pouring potions down your unconscious throat."

"What day is it?"

"Considering that it's nearly midnight, take your pick: the feast of St. John the Apostle, patron against poisoning by the way, or the Slaughter of the Innocents."

A day and a half. And damn his way of putting things. Sarah picked up a sandwich from the plate. Strawberry jam. She took a bite, then poured some tea. That was a mistake--she suddenly realized how badly she needed to use the bathroom.

* * *

The first thing Sarah noticed as she washed her hands was that there was no mirror in which to see just how horrible she looked. She had never been in here before, curiously; odd how his bathroom had seemed too private to invade.

"You don't have a mirror," Sarah complained, at the doorway. "I don't suppose there's some other horrible secret I ought to know?" She'd heard a few of her fellow students suggest the possibility that their Potions master might be a vampire. Which was manifestly stupid, if they'd paid any attention in Defense Against the Dark Arts. It was just that the lack of a mirror, on top of everything else, irked her.

"I have a great many horrible secrets. Most of which you will never learn." He advanced on her, and she flinched, but he slipped past her into the bathroom. "Unfortunately, my appearance isn't one of them, despite your pleasant habit of pretending to be blind. But at least I needn't stare at myself every time I have to piss." He opened a small cabinet by the sink and produced a plain hand mirror, which caught his reflection, a flash of pale skin and dark hair, as he hung it by a hole in its handle on a hook that protruded from the wall. "I realize this is hardly adequate for a young lady," he sneered, "but it will have to do."

"If you think I like adoring myself in a mirror..."

"I was under the impression that girls do." He took her arm and urged her in front of it. "Some of them merit it more than others."

Considering the face that looked out at her, Sarah wondered if the comment was intended as a compliment or a vicious jab. Her reflection was washed of color, her eyes rimmed with flecks of salt, her hair hanging in untidy sections that had worked loose from the hair clasp. She raised her hands automatically to the mess, popping open the clasp and trying to smooth her hair back into it.

"Leave it," Snape murmured, taking the clasp from her fingers.

"That's Professor McGonagall's," she protested, as he ran a hand over the hair he had set free. He lingered a bit too long at the nape of her neck. "No! You are not seducing me!" She strode out of the bathroom angrily.

"I knew it would be like this," he muttered as she left. In a moment, he came out; he placed the hair clasp on the shelf next to the crystal.

"You could have made me drink it," Sarah rounded on him. "That day in your office. Why didn't you? A little Imperius Curse wouldn't have been any problem for you, would it?"

"Apart from the fact that I'd rather not see the inside of Azkaban?"

Had he never been held there, even temporarily? "I could hardly have told anyone about it, could I?"

"At that point, it was difficult to tell just what you might do."

"So you didn't consider Obliviation? Murder?"

"You act as if that would have been preferable."

Sarah turned away, bringing her laced knuckles to press against her lips. Would it have been? But then, why was he trying to blame her? And something else was eating at her mind, had been since the headmaster had mentioned it yesterday.

"Was it true, what Professor Dumbledore said? Was that all this was ever about, from the beginning? Because I'm Malcolm Darkglass's daughter?" She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder.

His eyes seemed to close up like shutters. "Considering that I didn't know for certain he'd been a Death Eater until you told me, that would have been impossible."

"You knew I was from a dark wizarding family, though," she persisted. "You didn't consider that?"

"Believe me, there is very little I didn't consider before I summoned you to my office," he said, with lofty sharpness. "A great deal more than you seem to have done."

Sarah was not to be distracted by the accusation. "I just want to know if I'm being used."

He lifted his eyebrows sarcastically. "It's taken you this long to wonder?"

"I don't mean that." Of course he was using her; she was using him right back for the same purpose. So far it had been a mutually acceptable exchange. But this.... "I mean what Professor Dumbledore said about...about You-Know-Who."

"Ah, yes...that." He took the crystal down and studied it. "We will not discuss that matter at present."

"Why not?" Sarah blurted out. "Professor Dumbledore made it sound as if he expects me to...to...to pretend to..."

"I said," Snape repeated frostily, "that I'm not discussing it." He replaced the crystal. "Pay heed to what I told you yesterday, Sarah."

The warning in his voice should have stopped her. It did give her pause. But it outraged her as well.

"I have the right to know!" she protested. If Professor Dumbledore expected her to pretend to go over to the other side...the ramifications of being forced into such company, of having to actively participate in their activities were horrible beyond contemplating, and she would not be silenced until she knew what plans the headmaster had been hinting at. Plans that Snape was most certainly privy to; plans of which he might well have been the author.

He looked vexed enough that she startled as he set himself in motion without answering her, but it was the wardrobe he descended on. He rummaged inside and pulled out a tall bottle bearing a fancy label, then removed both the small glass that had rested atop it and the cork in a single fluid movement. He tipped the bottle, which was perhaps three-quarters full, and an amber liquid poured out into the glass. He tossed it back with the same rapidity, the same grimace as if it had been one of his own viler potions, then pressed the glass to his forehead, closing his eyes convulsively.

Sarah watched, disturbed. She had never seen him drink; it did not seem like him to do so. And if he were drinking to get drunk...she didn't want to be around when he reached that stage. She took a hesitant step toward the doorway.

His eyes jolted open, and abruptly he threw down the glass. The familiarity of the crash it made as it shattered across the floor caused her to wince. "There! Are you happy now?" he threw her own words back at her mockingly. "Or perhaps you've come to realize how very little you have to be happy about?" he observed astutely, watching her frown. He replaced the bottle in the wardrobe. "It's a pity that you don't have the sense to realize when to leave things alone."

She tried to keep her mouth shut...and couldn't. He has no right to keep it from me. "I deserve to know how deeply you've dragged me into this!" she said.

"What you deserve..." he echoed, "what you deserve...." He advanced on her menacingly, cornered her against the bed. "Shall I tell you what you deserve?"

He's right, I have no sense at all. I've got to get out of here. Wand?

He caught the movement of her hand and snagged her wrist.

"Let me go," she demanded, trying to twist free of his grip.

"No, you deserve to hear this." His other hand shot up and locked around her jaw, just a bit higher than a chokehold, freezing her in place. He brought his lips close to her ear. "At some point it will happen. If we're fortunate, it won't be until well after the school year ends. It may be sooner if we attract the wrong sort of attention. But sooner or later, some of my...associates will become interested in the true nature of our relationship. Can you guess the answer the headmaster intends for me to give to them?"

Was he trying to blame this on Professor Dumbledore now? "No," she whispered, as his hand tightened on her face, demanding an answer. But she was beginning to imagine the possibilities, and she was shaking with the effort not to scream.

"Truly not?" He traced a slow circle on her jaw with his thumb. "I would have thought it would be abundantly clear that it will be necessary to convince the interested parties that I have, in fact, seduced you in every sense of the word. That you have become persuaded that you are indeed your father's daughter. And if--although for all our sakes you'd better pray it never happens--if you should be brought to the Dark Lord's attention, and if I am required to bring you before him, then you had better be prepared to do whatever is necessary to demonstrate convincingly that you are his loyal servant. Because if he suspects that you are not, if he suspects me because of you.... Do you realize what will happen then, Sarah?" His voice had dropped to a harsh whisper. "He undoubtedly will order me to kill you. And I will do it, Sarah, without hesitation."

A strangled sound broke from her throat as he released her neck. Oh no, oh no oh no oh no. Sweet drowned saints, she was in deep. Far deeper than her mother had ever been. Holding back her heart had not protected her, not from that. Damn it, Snape, if only you knew when to leave things alone! She looked up into his eyes, her own filled with terrified anger...and quailed at what she saw there.

He wanted her: the incident in the bathroom had told her that. But now it was as if frightening her this way had ignited something more, a lust that was so dark that it might well take her death to satisfy it.

"No!" she said, but he was already grappling with her, bearing her back onto the bed. "Stop it! You're hurting me!" Her wrists felt as if they might break from the pressure of being pinned down.

"Don't fight me, Sarah," he snarled between clenched teeth.

"Let me go!" She struggled, and suddenly he had. But he also had wand in hand faster than she did.

"Immobilus!" He stared down at her, panting. "This takes us back, doesn't it?"

"Please don't!" she pleaded. But he took her wand and tossed it on the bedside table. "Please!"

"If you behave, you may get it back," he sneered. He bent close over her, his lank hair shrouding her face. She could taste the pungency of the whiskey on his breath. Then, as he found her breasts, she cried out in pain. In the past week they had become so inexplicably tender that she flinched from anything that might bump against her chest: the ungentle touch was agony. "That really hurts," she begged. "I mean it."

"I said if you behave!" he warned, but then his eyes narrowed as if in comprehension of something. His frown deepened. "I don't think you do want to behave, though, do you?" He slid his hand down to press against her abdomen. "No...you've already gotten everything from me that you wanted." As he spoke these last words, his fingers convulsed in the fabric.

"That's not true," Sarah said. But the force of the accusation in his eyes was like a stab to the heart of her conscience. It wasn't true, was it? But then why was she fighting him now?

"I sincerely hope not," he said, as if he didn't believe a word of it. "But your enthusiasm leaves something to be desired."

"I just don't want it to be like this," she pleaded.

He studied her, dark eyes tracing her features, his expression shifting like ripples on water. Then, as if winter had descended in a moment, the water froze, locking his face into decisive unpleasantness.

Snape shed his robes and then his shirt. Sarah shut her eyes; they had never taken their clothes off, not like this. Not that they had ever talked about it, but it was an unspoken precaution. Now, with the school nearly empty, with her awareness of the meaning of the shadow on his arm, with their names joined together on a piece of paper, there was no purpose in the pretense that they weren't really doing anything so long as their clothes were on.

The fact that her major muscles were paralyzed by the spell gave him some difficulty with her clothing. She couldn't help giggling in dark hysteria at his efforts, until he resorted to magic. Exposed as she had never been to anyone, it ceased to be remotely amusing.

"Please," she whispered in desperation. "Please don't, please..." Professor? Sir? The words felt dead on her tongue. "...Severus, please...."

He bent again, breath to breath, and smoothed a fingertip across her cheek. "I don't remember you ever calling me that," he murmured silkily. Then, with his lips almost brushing hers, he whispered, as if it were a caress, "Finite incantatem."

It was difficult to know what to do with the power that had been restored to her limbs. She tensed, trying to push him away, but without any real strength. She was disturbed at the way she had to fight her body's instinct for surrender as he took her. She had never done otherwise with him. It was such a curious thing: she didn't want to cry or to scream. She just really, truly did not want this to be happening. But the ambiguity of her own reactions smote her soul with sudden agony.

Is this rape or not?

It seemed a long time before he was finished, when she wanted it to be over so badly. But even when she thought he was done, he didn't move off her.

"Look at me."

She had been trying not to, unable to bear the lust on his face, the fierceness in his eyes.

"Look at me, Sarah." There was nothing else to be done, so she did. She could not unravel his expression now. But he had her attention, and he went on. "Never push me that far again."

Her fault. Why did he have to make it her fault? But that was him. And she had known better.

"I just had to know," she whispered, the tears she had not shed while he was hurting her suddenly burning her eyes. "I had to know."

"I know." The acknowledgement was as unexpected as his lips pressing against her forehead, murmuring against her skin. "I know. But I wasn't ready to tell you."

* * *

* * *

* * *

Wrapped only in her robes, Sarah sat on the edge of the bed, finishing the stale jam sandwiches, reheating the tea just enough to make it possible to tolerate washing the bread down with the bitter stuff. Aunt Portia would be appalled at such abuse of a teapot. More appalled, probably, than at the abuse of her niece. Sarah grimaced.

It was two o'clock in the morning, and he was still in the workroom.

I can't sit here all night staring into space. She wasn't sleepy after her long rest, although a sense of exhaustion lingered. More than anything, she wanted to go upstairs, out on the battlements in the cold night air. There might even be stars. But Professor Dumbledore had made it clear that she was a prisoner for the duration of the holidays. She felt as if she were suffocating.

Finally she padded toward the bathroom, hoping that his latest cleaning spell hadn't missed any shards of glass. At the sound of her footsteps, her jailer came to the workroom doorway.

"Don't you ever sleep?" she asked, irritated.

"Not when I'll be hexed the moment I lose consciousness, no," he retorted sardonically.

Sarah couldn't deny that she had considered a number of spells for the purpose. But unless she was prepared to flee Hogwarts, with nowhere else to go, the headmaster's decreed arrangements for her future would make acting on her impulses...unwise, to say the very least.

"It would be nice," she said, "if I could so much as have a shower without being babysat."

"I won't stop you." There was an edge to his voice, a narrowing of his eyes that added, from washing my touch off your body.

Unsure enough of her own motivations to even attempt a reply, she turned on her heel and stalked into the bathroom.

* * *

She felt better, cleaned up, even though she'd had to scrub her hair with ordinary soap. She dried off, then, in a fit of pique, whispered the silencing charm over her feet before she left the bathroom. Knowing that she couldn't get away with even a whispered spell out here, she resorted simply to opening her trunk as quickly and quietly as she could. Her best nightgown was still on top, where McGonagall had left it, and she snatched it out and slipped it over her head.

"How appallingly virginal." He was in the doorway again.

"Excuse me," Sarah answered sarcastically, shaking the white fabric until it draped smoothly down to her ankles. "I haven't had time to acquire a new wardrobe. I'm not in the habit yet of shopping in Madam Mim's Boutique." The very idea perturbed her--Madam Mim's featured little bits of satin held together by little bits of lace, in glaring gemstone colors, and with (rumor had it) all sorts of questionable spells sewn into the elegant French seams.

"Perhaps not Madam Mim's." He appeared to blanch slightly, if that were possible. "But something that makes you look a little less..."

"Like a child?" she spat. "Well, since you're so determined to control every aspect of my life, next time you go to Diagon Alley, you can choose my lingerie to suit yourself."

"I meant nothing of the kind, and you know it."

"I know nothing of the kind. All I know is what I heard in your little speech about how you expect me to behave."

"There is nothing unreasonable in what I've required," he said vehemently. "Is there any privilege I've proposed depriving you of that you have enjoyed up to now?"

"If I hadn't been doing anything that bothered you before, why lay down the law to me now?" Sarah asked, exasperated.

Snape drew himself up stiffly. "It seemed all too likely that you would believe this change in status has given you the right to pester and intrude."

"Well if I did, I'd hardly be the first person here to throw their supposed rights around!"

Sarah was not about to back down from the staring contest which resulted from this accusation. Neither, it seemed, was Snape. But his expression, from the very beginning of it, was closer to surrender than she had ever seen. "I give you my word," he finally said, teeth clenched, "I will never do such a thing again."

Sarah knew it was the closest she would ever hear to an apology. "I sincerely hope not."

"That does not mean, however," he went on, "that you can ignore my instructions."

"There!" Sarah said, extending an accusing finger. "That's exactly what I won't tolerate!"

"You damned well better learn to tolerate it," he snapped.

"You have no business telling me what to do!"

"Quite apart from the fact that you are my wife," he said silkily, "I remind you that are also still my student, in case you'd forgotten."

"I meant outside of the classroom, and you know it."

"It makes no difference. I am now more particularly responsible for you outside of the classroom than I have ever been within it."

"Well thank-you-very-much, but I never asked you to be, did I? I am perfectly capable of being responsible for myself."

"Responsible for yourself? In the situation as it presently stands? You're about as capable of surviving this without my guidance as I am of...of choosing lingerie." He grimaced.

Sarah brought her hands to her mouth, trying to stifle a sorry little laugh at the sudden mental picture. He must truly be at wit's end to make a joke like that.

His sneer softened almost to a smirk, and then, quite uncharacteristically, he sighed. "I really am very serious in what I say. Regardless of your progressive little opinions, if you fail to follow my instructions, to learn what I have to teach you, or to obey my orders at some crucial moment, it will not be within my power to protect you from the consequences."

Sarah felt the mirth drain out of her. Solemnly she asked, "I'm not going to like the lessons, am I?"

"I very much doubt it." His eyes looked tired. "We will talk about this tomorrow."

She glanced up at the clock that sat on the shelf, a curious conglomeration of metal gears and glass spheres and pipes, through which flowed assorted sands and liquids. "It is tomorrow," Sarah pointed out.

"It'll be tomorrow when I wake up. If I wake up." He fixed her with a questioning eye. "If I fall asleep, what can I expect from you?"

"If I were going to do something, I'd hardly tell you, would I?"

"You're a Gryffindor," he said, as if that were adequate explanation.

"The Sorting Hat almost put me in Slytherin, you know. You've warned me yourself about making assumptions."

"Do I have to take more drastic steps, then? Take your wand again? Petrify you?"

Sarah tried to shrug off the cold, hard knot in the center of her chest. "Immobilization spells only work for so long, you know."

"Damn it, Sarah, it's four o'clock in the morning! If I find it necessary to take another alertness potion, we are both likely to regret it."

"Very well, then," Sarah said. She was finding that teasing him, while it offered a certain degree of amusement, was not only potentially hazardous, it also suddenly seemed unnecessarily cruel. As if he doesn't deserve being treated so in his own turn! But it was pointless. "I'll drink another sleeping potion, if you like. And you can take my wand if you insist. Although I'd rather you didn't."

He stalked off into the workroom without replying, and Sarah sank down on the edge of the bed, letting her head droop against the bedpost. She listened, trying to sort out what he was doing in there, and from that, what he had decided to do about her. Cleaning up something in progress, it sounded like. Jars put away, but no bottling of finished potions or cleaning of cauldrons. She heard him move into the office, then return. A moment later he was coming back through the doorway.

"Something simpler," he said, crossing to her and offering a dram bottle. "A prolonged lack of dreams is supposed to be unhealthy, at least according to Poppy Pomfrey."

Leaving it in her hands, he moved around to the other side of the bed and, from the sound of it, began to change clothes. Sarah opened the vial and put it to her nose. Yes, a basic sleeping draught, slower and subtler than Dreamless Sleep.

What if he...?

That's hardly likely, is it, if he's as exhausted as he seems?

She felt his weight shift the bed on the other side. With some trepidation, she turned, half expecting to see pale flesh. Instead she saw worn, gray flannel. An entirely ordinary nightshirt, in which he looked so ordinary himself, so little threatening that she wanted to giggle with relief. And he had no call to be criticizing what she wore to sleep in.

"Should I be worried?" he asked, taking note of the smirk that had crept to her lips.

"I thought you were always worried." Sarah extracted her wand from her sleeve and handed it to him.

"I am," he said. "But there are degrees." He tucked her wand inside his pillowcase. "Well?"

Sarah downed the sleeping potion, finding herself savoring the taste of the lavender that was its major component.

"No more broken glass," he groaned long-sufferingly.

Sarah placed the empty bottle on the bedside table, then slipped under the covers. The green velvet of the canopy went to black above her as he put out the lights. She laid very still, letting the potion feed off her lingering exhaustion and off the sheer misery that, until she had to face her thoughts in the dark, had been lurking half-unperceived in the corners of her mind. It was almost a relief to feel the potion transmuting it into lethargy.

On the edge of sleep, she startled. He had turned over and lain a hand on her arm.

"Shhh," he whispered, then, as she remained tensed, "I am not up to that. All I want is to hold you."

Although it was against her impulses to do so, she did not have the energy, mental or physical, for the violent rebuff he deserved. So, she let him hold her. And unreasonable as it seemed, after all that had happened, with so much of her suffering chargeable directly to him, nevertheless, wrapped within his arms, the flood of unhappiness she had been drowning in since Christmas Day began to ebb, like a tide flowing from a pale shore into a vast, dark ocean.