Title by Jimi Hendrix, quote by Bob Dylan.
IV. Castles Made of Sand
I wish I could write you a melody so plain that would
hold you, dear lady, from going insane— that would ease you,
and cool you, and cease the pain of your useless and pointless knowledge.
When Sydney woke up, she had no idea what time it was. She knew—and could verify, by looking at her arm—that she had been sedated multiple times since she had extracted from Sark a promise of his help. Shady memories of going to the bathroom, of being coaxed into eating, changing her clothes, of a warm washcloth wiped gently over her face—these lurked unobtrusively in her mind, but she knew better than to pursue them, or any other memory.
She had devised a system, even for those few waking moments, of focusing entirely on the present, taking in every detail of her surroundings. With her thoughts crammed full with the color of the walls, the pattern of the bedspread, the texture of the carpet, every single one of the few possessions Sark had brought to the hotel room . . . she left no space to think of the past.
Not that it worked. It didn't. She couldn't last five minutes without needing to be knocked out again. But it helped.
She sat up—or at least, that was the plan. Her brain seemed incapable of communicating that plan effectively to her body, so all she really accomplished was jerking over onto her side. Sark was next to the bed almost immediately, which some tiny, impotent scrap of her psyche found quite distressing.
"Vaughn," she whispered. Sydney's voice was ragged from disuse.
It was usually her first word after waking up—and a fair percentage of what she said in general—so Sark was less than surprised. That didn't mean he was any less sick of hearing it. "This may not come as a shock to you, but . . . as it happens, no," he informed her as nicely as he could manage.
"Vaughn," she repeated more desperately, and Sark had to roll his eyes. There were limits to his patience. Very inflexible limits, upon which Agent Bristow had been trampling in every one of her few waking moments.
"Sydney, I need you to listen to me. Vaughn is not here at the moment. I've given you a half-dose of the sedative."
"Why?"
Oh, the musical sound of a word passing her lips unrelated to her precious Agent Vaughn. "If we're lucky, it will keep you calm without putting you to sleep."
"And if we're not lucky?"
Fighting the urge to throw his hands in the air like a bad actress, Sark could feel his eyes widening with frustration. "The CIA will crumble and rivers will overflow and ten plagues will be visited upon Egypt. Miss Bristow, I don't know. It was entirely hypothetical. Figurative. Metaphorical." He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to breathe evenly. Julian Sark did not sleep well on the floor, and his temper and vocabulary were generally the first to suffer for it.
He took a deep breath, inhaling and exhaling quickly. "I need you to read something, Miss Bristow. Can you do that?"
"I . . . think so."
"Excellent."
The 'something' he handed her was, in fact, a huge sheaf of papers. He'd been working on it nonstop for nearly a week, and it was as complete as it was ever going to be. Sydney stared at the stacks of handwritten sheets in disbelief. "You want me to read all of this?" she asked groggily.
"If you please."
"What . . ." As Sark helped prop her into a sitting position on the pillows, Sydney skimmed the first lines. "What is this?"
"Your life. Everything I could get, arranged in—" he grunted at the exertion of lifting her "—chronological order."
"By hand."
"Any issues with my penmanship will have to be set aside for the time being," he told her. As he straightened up, his back cracked audibly.
Sydney stared at the first page, detailing her birth and early childhood, and then looked up at Sark with a remarkable amount of scorn for someone still so thoroughly drugged. "This is your plan," she said, waving the papers in the air.
"You don't have to sound quite so full of disbelief."
"Somehow," said Sydney, sounding almost exactly like her old self, "I just can't help it."
"Miss Bristow . . . it may have escaped your notice, but this is far from being my field of personal expertise. You asked for my help, which is what I am trying to provide. If, as you told me earlier, you are finding it difficult to assign an order to your memories, I believe—I hope—that this may be of use. Considering what you have already been through, you'll forgive me my reluctance to drag you to the nearest hypnotherapist for whatever rubbish they attempt to pass off as treatment. I wanted to try something less invasive first."
"Yeah," Sydney agreed in a thoroughly sarcastic, if bleary, tone. "And maybe later you can quiz me with flashcards."
Sark closed his eyes, swallowed, clenched his teeth. Considered counting to ten but discarded the idea. "Read it. I will be taking a shower." He picked out fresh clothes at random and shut the bathroom door with more force than necessary.
She was almost finished when he came out of the bathroom. When she was done with the last page, she flipped it all over and started again.
As much as it irritated her pride to admit it, the massive document was helpful. Very helpful, even. It was like being given a book of clues to putting together a puzzle with millions of pieces. Her task was still complicated, her memory still a fragmented mess, but she had the basic timeline down. Birth, childhood, mother's death, high school, college, SD-6, grad school, the CIA. Most of the people were tucked into their proper slots. She coached herself through it, calling up memories in order like a recitation.
Vaughn was always the sore spot, the topic from which her mind shied away. That, and her torture by the Covenant—not detailed, of course, in the account of her life Sark had created. The abduction she allowed herself to skip over. After all, that was what she'd been trying to forget in the first place. But Vaughn . . . she forced herself to remember everything, from their first meeting to the most hideous memory of all—returning to him, so desperate to assuage his grief and find comfort in his embrace . . . seeing that woman. Realizing, like a punch to the gut, that the man she thought was her soul mate would place himself willingly in the arms of another woman, merely nine months after Sydney's supposed death.
On her fourth perusal of the papers, she began to notice the alterations in handwriting. She became able to discern the neater print of when Sark began to write again from the messier scrawl evincing tedium and exhaustion. Looking at all the work he'd done, Sydney couldn't help feeling guilty. She looked up from the document, ready to apologize, and saw Sark in his usual chair, reading and drinking some very expensive-looking wine.
"Is something wrong?" he asked without taking his eyes off the book.
"No. Sark . . ." This time he did look up, his expression cool and indecipherable. "I'm sorry. Thank you for doing this."
"I take it you've found it to be of some use?"
"Yes, it is." Sydney actually smiled, albeit a little weakly. "I'm sorry. I was rude earlier."
His lips turned up at the corners, ever so slightly. "It's all right, Miss Bristow. I've certainly heard worse."
"Well, yeah," she acknowledged. "But usually you deserve it."
A soft bark of laughter escaped Sark. "It seems you're feeling better. Does this mean I won't have to purchase any more sedative?"
"I hope not." She bit her lip. "I think I'll take a shower now."
"Try not to fall and impale yourself on anything," he cautioned, sipping his wine. "My skills as a medic are nothing short of wretched."
"I'll keep that in mind."
The shower was absolutely heavenly, and she easily emptied the little complimentary bottles of shampoo and conditioner. After a brief hesitation, Sydney also appropriated what she assumed to be Sark's bar of soap. And a new one of the disposable razors and some shaving cream. Hey, he was one of the bad guys. Making use of his toiletries without permission was nothing compared to what many people in the CIA would like to do to him.
By the time she got out the mirror was completely fogged over. As she towel-dried her hair, she considered the situation with Sark.
She couldn't trust him. That would be beyond foolish. He had been part of the plot that had killed Francie and Dixon's wife, had almost killed Will. Sark had made it abundantly clear that his loyalty lay with absolutely no one. He might be helping her recuperate only to pawn her life to the highest bidder.
Somehow, though, Sydney didn't believe that. Oh, she was certain that he would find a way to twist things in his favor, but if he were planning to betray her it would certainly have been much simpler to do so when she was lying helpless in his bed. For now, it seemed most expedient to accept Sark's help and worry about the rest when she was in a better condition. Perhaps in a few days, with luck, she could be almost as good as new.
She was a little startled, on opening the bathroom door, to see Sark pulling back the covers from the side of the bed she hadn't been occupying. Even though it was, in fact, his room, Sydney was taken aback. "What are you doing?"
"I'm afraid, Miss Bristow, that my inability to tolerate the floor for another night means that you will no longer be sleeping alone."
"Oh."
"A more muted response than I expected," he said, sliding in between the sheets. He made a quiet noise of satisfaction as he settled onto the soft mattress. Sark was wearing a t-shirt and pants to bed, which somehow didn't surprise Sydney. Then again, she'd rarely seen him less than impeccably dressed.
Well, this was an unexpected complication. But not a big deal, she told herself. The bed was probably big enough for three people, so there was no reason to refuse to relinquish half of the space. It was practical and unexceptional and did not bring to mind any memories whatsoever of sleeping next to Vaughn. No. Setting her shoulders as if preparing for a fight, she got into the bed and made herself comfortable, steadfastly ignoring Sark's presence.
Until he spoke. "Interesting."
"What?"
"You sleep on your stomach."
"Sometimes," she replied, unsure of why she felt so defensive.
"Hm." Rather than explain, Sark reached over to the lamp and flicked the switch, instantly plunging the room into darkness. It would take a while for her eyes to adjust to the bit of faint outside light that circumvented the thick curtains, but Sydney didn't plan to be awake for that long. Despite the enforced unconsciousness—or perhaps because of it—she felt utterly drained.
"Sweet dreams, Miss Bristow."
"Shut up," she mumbled, burying her face in her pillow and willing herself to sleep.