by Celia Lake
The steady shifts of her hands, whether she was tending to something for him or back at her knitting. The quirk of her lips in a smile, or the way her right eyebrow arched. How she held his wrist when she took his pulse, steady but gentle. The way she stood, conserving her energy for a long day, but ready to move at a moment’s notice. More than anything else, her patience and kindness that were somehow never about pity.
She’d clearly enjoyed the conversation with Treeve, too. It was no wonder. He was charming, when something caught his interest, and he had that intensity to him. Having that kind of sharp attention focused on her, when she’d been feeling no one listened to her, must have been near enough a drug. Certainly a burst of sunlight through the storm.
Roland swallowed. He didn’t have much to offer her. He was bent and near-broken, not even able to walk twenty feet on his own, reliably. If he ever could, chances were good he’d be sent off to do something for the War effort, likely something unpleasant. He had some money, there was a great-aunt who’d been fond of him, but it might well not make up for going against his family’s wishes. He was sure they’d not approve of someone of Elen’s background. Or profession, for that matter.
What he could do, however, was pay attention to her, listen. She was doing her best to help him, after all. And he could do it without expectation of anything other than her professional best. He swore to himself he would not pressure her, he would not make things awkward, he would not jeopardise her position or professionalism. More than he had, anyway.
None of this made his increasingly intense desire for her any easier, of course. Just thinking about her, now, made him want her to come back, just so he could start listening to her again, have her full attention and give her his own. It was like the sun, or some other bright star was there, when she came closer, something that eased everything else.
He thought better. He felt better. He felt, period. Somehow, she had dragged him out of the murk and mud and fog of the War and his injuries, the way his body and mind weighed him down. Roland was certainly, utterly certain, that she didn’t give herself enough credit there. He’d certainly seen other nurses, been tended by them, without anything like the same results.
Perhaps, if he were very lucky, he might make her believe she was worth listening to.
Chapter 27
That afternoon, Roland’s room
Elen took a moment once the tea was ready to remind herself that they were working on sorting things out. The discussion with Master Dixon, this morning, had been unsettling, in ways she still couldn’t name. It had felt rather like being examined by a snake, even a dragon. She couldn’t begin to parse what he’d meant about his work having to do with dragons and embezzlement. She hadn’t dared to ask. He’d barely left her space to say what she’d needed to.
Then there was Roland, and the way he was reacting. He’d gone all squirrelly for a moment, in there. She had wondered if he’d begun to have feelings for her, of one kind or another. The way his shoulders had hunched gave certain impressions of a rather particular sort of discomfort.
Every nurse knew it happened sometimes, but it wasn’t something she’d needed to deal with before. At the Temple of Youth, it was much more innocent. She would be deluged by drawings or pressed flowers or perhaps a bit of a sweet from a care package from a distant relative. That was quite easy to manage. And at the front, she’d not had too much time with any one patient. Enough to be sad, for the ones who died, and glad for those sent to other places to recover, but nothing more than that.
This was different, though. It was the first time since her apprenticeship where she’d tended to a single adult patient for an extended period. Even then, she rather thought there were not many times when she’d cared for an adult man who wasn’t married or otherwise clearly attached. At least she was fairly sure he was unattached, there had been no sign of any lady sending notes, or flowers, or anything else like that.
Elen had come to enjoy her time with him. Not just in the manner of a patient who presented some interesting challenges, if not as many as might keep her properly busy. He was thoughtful. As she’d pointed out, just now, he listened, in a way that she wasn’t at all used to from anyone except a few friends. Unlike many of the men of good families she’d been around in the course of her nursing, he didn’t treat her like an invisible servant. Even in the beginning, when he had said little, he’d been polite, with please and thank you.
She could not begin to tell if that was his native politeness, or if that were something he did to her, in particular. From seeing him at his presentation, she was clear that he could turn on the charm, in an instant, even when his body was rebelling.
Whatever it was, she had to admit she found it intriguing, even enticing. He’d never even suggested turning that charm on her, and she wondered what that would be like, if ever did. If she’d be able to do the right thing.
At the moment, it was the fact that he listened to her. That was a thing to treasure. And he not only listened, he went along with her treatment ideas with only the sensible amount of questions and discussion. That was, in all honesty, far more enticing than his charm might be.
Elen took a breath. She’d have to figure that out later. Now it was time to pick up the saucers, balancing the teacups carefully, and bring them back. There was no one in the hallway to avoid, but she could hear low voices from the cracked doors of two rooms. She set down Roland’s cup, and then came around the bed to set her own down, leaving the door a crack open.
“I hadn’t asked, before.” Roland’s voice was quiet. “Do you have a fellow, or someone?”
It was such a close echo of her own thoughts that she startled, then blinked. “No, no.”
“Not at all?” He seemed more than a little startled.
That made her ask her own question. “What about you? I’ve - pardon, I’ve assumed not.” The way he stiffened, she knew she’d hit a nerve, and she immediately said, “Pardon.”
Roland waved his hand, then reached for the tea, as if that would be reassuring. “I had a fiancee. She broke things off with me not long after I woke up here.”
“That’s not fair.” The indignation flooded her before she could think better of it. Though it did explain part of why he’d been so alone.
He shook his head, just a twitch side to side. “It wouldn’t be fair to hold her to the engagement when I’m a different man.”
“She didn’t give you much time to figure out what sort of man you are now.” Elen fumed, then shook her head, and reached for her own tea cup. To ease the conversation a little, she said, “I suppose it’s traditional for nurses to take up with healers, but that hasn’t been on offer for me.”
Roland tilted his head, following her into the distraction. “More fools them.”
“I’m rather boring, you know. All work, little play.” She shrugged. “My line of healing has never lent itself to much time to go to social things. All sorts of different shifts, sometimes changing day to day.”
He just kept watching her. It wasn’t an intense gaze, the way Master Dixon had looked at her. This was something softer, as if he were taking all of her in, the way you looked at a garden or landscape, not just one plant or one tree. He didn’t say anything, and eventually she filled the silence. “What were you planning on doing? Before the War?”
Roland didn’t answer her. Instead, he shifted, leaning toward her. She wasn’t sure if he was about to do something, or say something. She thought, for a glancing moment, that it was the kind of way one hoped for a kiss. Before either of them could move further, there was an appalled bark from the door. “Nurse. On your feet.”
She stood, almost knocking the chair behind her, her heart racing and a sudden stab of pain in her head. She forced her hands down to her sides, rather than grab for it, trying to make her eyes focus on the door. There was a tall man, well-fed, in the robes of a senior healer, the draping gown of scarlet red over a sharply tailored suit.
Roland gathered his wits m
uch faster than she did. His voice was sharp. “Who are you?” It wasn’t a request, it was a demand, certainly equal to equal, if not equal to inferior. All at once, she could hear in his voice all the years of breeding and security in his position, training and money, sharpened by a military manner.
“Nurse. Report to Sister Almeda’s office, immediately. Wait for me there. Bring your things.”
“Who. Are. You.” Roland’s voice was louder now, and properly fierce. Elen’s head throbbed.
“Sir.” She wasn’t even sure who she was saying it to, whether to Roland or this strange man, this senior healer. She bent, reaching for her bag. At least the knitting was tucked away, she hadn’t taken it out yet.
“Nurse Morris. Stay.” That was Roland, and Elen managed to stop. She blinked to get her eyes to focus long enough to see that he’d gone pale, in a way that couldn’t be good for him.
“Nurses are employed by the Temple. They are not yours to bid to go or stay. Major.” The last came out in a snarl, from the door.
Elen straightened up, and took a breath. “Sir, I’ll be in Sister Almeda’s office, or waiting outside.”
“Tell her Senior Healer Cole will be along presently, relating to a serious matter.”
Elen felt faint, but she nodded slightly and regretted it immediately. “Sir.” She repeated it as if it would fix something, while knowing perfectly well it wouldn’t. She couldn’t bear to look at Roland, she knew if she did, she would burst out in sobs or fall to the ground. That would be useless and awful. She took one step, then another, focusing her eyes on the floor, five feet in front of her. First the worn boards of the room, then the healer’s polished shoes.
He finally stepped aside and let her pass, though with the sort of tight disdain that made her feel lower than low. She got halfway down the hallway, before she heard Roland again. “Explain yourself.” Then the door closed with an insistent and final click.
She’d left him alone. With that man. Who she did not trust one bit. Who Sister Pomona thought might be doing evil. And yet he could not go back. Even if she’d wanted to, she didn’t know what she’d do. She could barely put one foot in front of the other.
There was at least no one in the hallway. She had a minute or two, maybe no more, before Healer Cole came out of that room and came looking for her. By the time he did, she needed to be at Sister Almeda’s office, no matter how much she wanted to flee.
She couldn’t. She’d be thrown out of her room in the lodging house, and never able to work as a nurse again, anywhere in Albion. Even if she was going to be sent off to some tiny hamlet with nothing that really needed her skills, she might eventually find her way back to something worthwhile. Maybe.
She glanced behind her at the door, and then deeply regretted moving her head. But she thought she had enough time to drop a note in the message box. She found one of the slips, managing to scribble a barely legible note to Healer Rhoe, a brief line. “Healer Cole with Roland Gospatrick. Sent me away. ‘serious matter.’ Please check on him. Roland.” It was entirely unprofessional, and not at all helpful, but she could not think of any other way to put it. She dropped it into the message box, where it would be whisked away, sorted, and delivered promptly enough.
Then it was time for her to put one foot in front of the other, stubbornly refusing to give up. She went slowly out the door, across the small courtyard, then up the stairs. Sister Almeda was not there, the door was locked, so she sat, feet pressed together tightly, head bowed, ignoring any conversation, her bag tucked in her lap.
Chapter 28
Monday, May 10th, Roland’s room
Roland lay back, his eyes barely open. Elen had been sent away, and not only had she not come back, everything had gotten much worse. Again.
It had been four days now. No, five. He was losing track of time again. The first day, after she’d been sent away, he’d been left entirely alone, except for the orderlies bringing food and seeing to his bath. But they wouldn’t talk to him, not one word beyond what was needed to accomplish their assigned task. He thought, as much as he could think, that they had been scolded, reprimanded, even threatened, the way they treated him.
Healer Cole - Senior Healer Cole, as he insisted on - had torn strips off of Roland for the better part of an hour. It had gotten tangled and confused in his head. He wasn’t sure if that was because of his illness, or if it was because Senior Healer Cole wasn’t at all coherent.
The lecture, the scolding, had been designed for a schoolboy. It had been a mess of calling him out for taking advantage of her. There’d been more, about not having the moral fibre when she took advantage of him, blame for not having recovered, and scorn for Elen’s approaches that had actually been helping. Complete with a flurry of moving red, from his eye-burningly scarlet gown.
Roland wasn’t sure what to make of it. Each time he tried, it got tangled up in his head. Everything turned murky and hard to grasp. There was some thread of it that seemed wrong, a note out of tune. Someone driving a mule to a charger’s gallop. But it wasn’t like he’d been able to stop the man and ask. Or, as it turned out, ask anyone else.
At the end of it, punctuated by comments about how Roland was taking him away from critical war work, the man had left. He’d tossed a comment over his shoulder about how he was adjusting the dosage again.
He tried to remember what it had been like after the bath, when it felt like he could find safety and hope again. The tirade had shattered all of that, tangling his tongue and his courage up. The potions, back to the original doses, had made everything worse.
There had been no way out of taking them. One of the orderlies had stood over him, and Roland had realised that the healer must indeed have something over them. He wasn’t sure what someone like Cole might have over them, except perhaps for threatening to send them overseas, into the worst of the War, but how would Cole have that kind of influence? It made his head hurt worse to think about it.
Tactically, drinking seemed the best of a bad lot of choices. He couldn’t improve his situation, but he could at least not put the people assigned to tend him at greater risk. It was entirely too small a thing, but it was all he had.
Whatever he was taking seemed even more awful now. He slept longer, nearer fourteen hours, and the muzzy-headedness never really let up. He’d fallen into a sort of timeless incoherence far too quickly, with time only really anchored by whether the meal he was brought was breakfast or dinner. Even then, it was sometimes hard to tell, since his meals had become a procession of easy to swallow porridge or soup.
By the third day, they had dug up a new nurse to sit with him. She didn’t talk to him, either. She hadn’t introduced herself, though Harry had called her Nurse Eglinton once, when they thought he was asleep. She wouldn’t even sit next to him, she had moved her chair to the far end of the room. She was perched next to the table where things were stored, with a small charm lantern. She didn’t knit, either, she just sat.
Roland did not approve. Not of the food. Not of his treatment. Not of Elen’s absence. Not of any of it. But he could not see what to do about it. He let out a long sigh. Nurse Elington didn’t even look up. He wasn’t sure what she was there for.
There was a knock on the door, and then the lights flicking up brightly, that made him wince and rub at his face. A man in uniform, that couldn’t be good.
“Major Gospatrick.” The man gave him a curt nod. “Nurse, if I could have a minute.”
She didn’t say anything to him, just stood, and went out, closing the door behind her. Roland pushed himself until he was sitting more upright. He’d make the attempt, anyway.
“We have had a further report from Healer Cole. He says you will be fit for a series of regular presentations beginning at the end of next week. Both here in Trellech, and one is being arranged in London, a discussion with several from their military about the options that magic can provide.”
Roland blinked, several times. “Regular presentations, starting next week?”
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The man gave another curt nod. “And others to follow, still being scheduled. You are expected to be ready, and do your duty. Healer Cole has made it clear to us we should consider anything else to be malingering. We do not wish to take steps toward a court-martial, but we will if it is necessary.”
Roland managed to keep from swearing, letting out a long stream of invective. He only won that battle by driving his fingernails so tightly into his palms he was sure he was drawing blood. Even with Elen, that would have been too much to ask, and without her, he had no idea how he could possibly survive it.
Protesting, however, was going to get him nowhere. First things first, he had to get more information. He had to force his way through the sludge in his head and get a better sense of what they were demanding, and what he should expect. “So I can prepare, can you tell me more about the audience and goals for each meeting?”
“You may take no notes.” The man still hadn’t given his name. “But I am permitted to tell you a few things. The Trellech meeting will include senior Ministry officials, as well as representatives from the Guard, and two visitors from the Army. They are seeking to build up training capacity for those with magic to assist in various tasks without risking breaking the Pact.”
Hence the Guard, who had more than a little experience with that. Albion, per se, as a magical community, didn’t have a standing army. Before the Pact, everyone fought as they needed or chose to. The lines of feudal oaths and obligations held the magical as well as the non-magical, and so generally there were fighters with magic on both sides. Even more often, they had provided protective warding and the occasional miracle that permitted an evacuation in the nick of time.
Since the Pact, the magical community was separate, bound by their oaths not to reveal magic or their magic in specific. It made being part of a larger army rather complicated. Over the centuries, a bridge had formed, between those who fought for Albion and the British forces. Individuals might go and fight, using their talents as they could. In larger wars, small groups might be sent for warding, incursions into enemy territory, or other tasks where maneuverability, training, and specialised skills were relevant.