The door opened before he reached it. He took a deep breath, set his feet on the floor, and walked into the other room. Fran started upright as he came in, and flinched away.
"Fran, are you afraid of me?"
She nodded, moving her mouth mutely.
Easy, for God's sake, easy, the girl's on the ragged edge of hysterics. Take the light touch.
"Afraid of me? Now that I'm fully clothed again and didn't even attempt felonious rape?"
"Don't laugh," she said, finding her voice. "I know what you're trying to do. But—don't. And don't tell me that I didn't see—what I saw." Her eyes moved quickly, a little rabbit movement, to the charred carpet, and away again.
"Fran." He seated himself beside her and took her face in his hands. "I'm not denying anything. What you saw—it happened, yes—but it wasn't—" he ran out of words.
"I'm not crazy! And it wasn't an illusion!"
"Okay, then! I'm a warlock! I weave dark spells! I've sold my soul to the devil! Do you like that any better?" He flung the words at her, bitterly.