by Celia Lake
Elen smiled a little. “He did mention she is impressively competent, sir. I - let me give you a few moments, perhaps, while I step away?”
Roland did not protest, he did want a few words with his father. Once she had retreated into the other room, he looked up. “Sir?”
“We will sort out your treatment. She seems most competent. Plain-spoken, yes, but that is no bad thing in a nurse. You intend to take this seriously, then?”
Roland nodded. “With or without your encouragement, sir, and Mother’s. But I would prefer with.”
“The circumstances do incline me, at least, to not judge too hastily. You were very badly off, then?”
“Extremely, sir, and barely knowing my own way through it. She has been kind, reliable, and competent, and also quite brave. We didn’t mention what brought her back, but that is a story I’d prefer to tell Mother myself.”
“I will tell your mother that more is in the offing then. I presume we will be seeing you at the Temple or some such, before too long, but you have only to send a letter if anything untoward happens.” The clock chimed, and he shook his head. “I must be off.”
At just that point, Elen knocked once, and said, “Sir, oh, yes.”
“Elen, I am delighted to know my son has been in good hands, and I am sure his mother will feel the same. We will be speaking more, and soon, I hope. Do write if anything changes, Roland will tell you how to reach me quickly. Take care.”
It was rather like a river going through a dam, all that controlled power, restrained for a particular goal. Once his father left, Roland took a deep breath, and felt a relief and security he hadn’t felt since he left for France.
Chapter 37
That evening, in London
Once Roland’s father had left, Elen closed the door behind him. She turned back, to see Roland watching her carefully.
“How much did I complicate things?” She took a breath, taking a step back.
Roland pushed himself upright, and then held out both hands to her. “Come here, if you will?” It was the most cautious, careful request she’d heard. Of course she went. He immediately pulled her into a gentle hug, an embrace like she hadn’t had from a man in years, just Amet or one of her other friends. He was steadier on his feet than she’d expected, and sturdier, over all. She did not want to pull away, not one bit.
“I know we cannot, as you say, act on our explorations, yet. But may I, may I kiss you? In hopes of the future?” He sounded wistful, more than anything else, like the promise of the kiss meant a great deal more to him than he was able to say.
She took a breath, trying to do the sums in her head about where her lines were for this. On one hand, he was her patient. On the other hand, unless he had a relapse she did not expect, she didn’t think he’d be her patient for long.
A fortnight, a month, before the main need would be rebuilding his strength in whatever energetic mode he preferred. She’d touched him before, of course, but his shoulders under his uniform were broad, even if the muscles needed rebuilding.
None of this was answering him, and she was leaving him hanging. And herself. She nodded, once. “In hopes,” she agreed, before her voice cracked.
He got his arm more steadily around her back, giving her enough space to tilt her head up, to meet his, while he bent to her. As their lips met, she could feel his other hand come up to her shoulders. Then the kiss was everything.
She could almost taste his magic mingling with hers, a sort of salty-ocean mixed with something green and fresh like a herb garden caught on the breeze. They both lost themselves in the kissing for longer than she’d expected, and only pulled back when they both mutually ran out of breath.
He straightened a little. “A great many hopes.” He coughed, once. “Perhaps, give me a minute to change into something more comfortable? And you might want to do the same?” He shifted his body, and she could feel what he wasn’t saying, that he’d found it quite arousing.
She lifted on her toes to kiss his cheek once, fleetingly. “Let me know when you’re ready.” With that, she retreated into her adjoining room, first slipping on a tea gown in a mid-lavender. It was a frock from last year, and not one she’d wear out in public, with the war on, the colour being a bit too optimistically cheerful. She hadn’t been sure tonight would be suitable for it, but she’d wanted something that wasn’t all about the War, somehow.
She undid her hair from the tight bun at the back of her head, considered for a moment, and then braided it loosely, letting the weight drape down her back. Soft slippers went on her feet, and it was a relief to get out of her formal shoes, especially after all the travel earlier and standing and waiting. Finally, she took out the knitting project she’d tucked away in her carpet bag, the one she’d told him about but never shown him.
“Come back when you’re ready.”
Elen opened the door. Roland had changed into a deep burgundy smoking jacket and - well, she knew they were clean pyjama pants, but they looked quite civilised. Before she could say anything, he blinked at her. “My, that’s a difference. And a lovely colour on you. Why do they make nurses wear such dark colours?” Then he gestured. “Chair? Bit of the bed? What’s your pleasure? I admit I don’t want a chair for a bit, my back is aching.”
“Dark colours don’t show stains.” Practical, if depressing. “And I suppose, the bed.” It was most forward, but they were both clear on what they were moving toward. And she wanted to be beside him, more than anything. “The jacket?”
“Been tucked away. I don’t exactly have somewhere to wear it.” He then gestured at the knitting in her hand. “Is that what I think it is?”
“The infamous shawl, yes.”
He glanced at it, then at her dress, then back at the deeper purple yarn. “They go together, don’t they? Or could. I admit I’m not very good at that, uniforms are very soothing that particular way.”
She nodded. “I wouldn’t wear this dress out, either. Not now. Too - too cheerful.” With that, she took a breath, and settled next to him on the bed, perching for a moment before she gave into her impulses and settled further back, leaving her feet hanging.
“I’m most glad you wore it for me. And brought your shawl. Can I see the lacework, then?”
Elen looked up, trying to decide if he meant it, or if he were just being kind. She found he was leaning forward, his eyes as bright and engaged as he had been talking to his father. She looked down at the shawl, then spread it out, leaving one needle stuck in the ball of yarn she was working from. “Careful of the other end.”
“Can’t be losing your stitches, no.” He let her hold onto it, as she spread the work she’d done so far from her hand over onto his lap.
Looking at her work, she wasn’t sure it was showing to best effect, for all she kept it carefully folded up. She was perhaps a third done with it, but it was going to be quite long when it was done, a good seven feet. But the stitches themselves were a bit crumped up, not as open as they would be eventually.
The yarn though, looked grand, a smooth spun fine purple. It had a vibrancy that she loved. More than that, the yarn was soft and easy on her hands, unlike the coarser stuff for the war, that had to stand up to mud and repeated harsh washings.
It was hard to have someone examining her work, even if she knew he was not the most demanding viewer of her knitting. She’d had a few pieces in craft and domestic arts shows in the past, and won the occasional prize, though never first. She always had stitches where things got turned around or bunched up. A casualty, she felt, of the fact she picked up and put down her knitting so often, due to her work. She rather envied the women who had time to sit for an hour with a friend, and do a fair stretch of knitting at once.
“It will look better when it’s all washed and shaped properly. The last step, after all the knitting, to make it smooth and even.” She knew she was babbling, now, and had to swallow to stop from saying more. Though that made her think, all at once, about the way the water made knitting be
tter, like it made people better. Smoothing and releasing and allowing everything to find its best shape.
Roland ran his finger lightly along the stitches, spreading them very gently. It made her suddenly wonder what his hands would be like doing other things, and she blushed. He, thankfully, didn’t notice, or at least didn’t ask her. His fingers hesitated where the pattern changed. “Tell me about it? This isn’t the ordinary sort of knitting I see people wearing.”
“It’s from the Shetland Isles.” She saw his eyebrow go up, as that was certainly not from where she came from. “Uncle Dewi has a son, a bit older than me, who is an alchemist. He married someone he met at school, from up there, when I was still in school. I don’t get to see Mareoun much - she’s got plenty to keep busy with - but we write sometimes, and we both knit. The pattern was from her. They don’t share them often.”
“And you do all this with just the two stitches you showed me, and looping the yarn different ways to do them?”
Elen smiled. “It’s magical, isn’t it? A few sticks and some yarn, and all the variations. And that’s before you get into the colours, or making things to wear that fit you closely, like a jumper or a frock.”
He looked up at her, and smiled. “Oh, I knew you were magic, the first time I saw you. You figured out the light was hurting me, right off. And you did all the right things even when I was grumpy and very much a crab.”
Elen snorted. “You were my patient, I wasn’t going to take offence. At least not unless I was sure you meant it. Even then, my standards for being offended by a patient are rather high.” She considered. “There have been a few. Not many.”
Roland nodded, then he looked down at the knitting. “I am glad you answered Father as you did. I’m not entirely sure what he thought, and I am quite certain that Mother will have her opinions, she always does. But they are most inclined, right now, to be kind to anyone who has actually helped me.”
Elen nodded. “Your father loves you, rather a lot, I think, for all I imagine you’ve rarely said such things to each other.”
Roland blinked several times. “That’s what you think of, first?”
Elen shrugged slightly, and found herself leaning a bit more against him. “I know my parents love each other. And they love me, but your father had it right, they don’t understand me. I - I was all set not to like your parents. Because they hadn’t written, hadn’t checked on you, hadn’t sent anything. Only, that’s not what was going on.”
“No.” Roland’s voice was wry. “My father was hatching a plot to get me on something close to his home territory, without alerting whoever was blocking his letters.”
“And your mother?” Elen was curious about that, both what Roland would say, and how he’d say it.
“Mother is very efficiently terrifying. I’m sure Father learned all his debriefing skills from her. She’s been out of the country, mostly. And Father’s perfectly competent, but Temple politics are not his forte.”
“They’re your mother’s?”
“Oh, no. Ministry, for her, especially the Penelopes and some of the magical research folks.” He wriggled his hand. “Mind, they might like having someone in the family with Temple expertise. And connections.”
Elen leaned back a little and peered at Roland. “Even after this? And after whatever it is we decide to do?”
He took in a breath, and let it out. “I suppose now’s a good time to talk about it? If you meant what you said to Father, about my recovery?”
“I did. I think it will take some time to steady out your magic. But weeks, maybe two months, not forever. Seeing how it’s been settling since we stopped the potion.”
He almost said something, then refused to get distracted. “They might send me overseas again. To do something dangerous.” He shifted his hand to reach for hers, which was still holding the knitting. She gathered it up, and set it carefully, without looking away from him, to the other side. “If they did that, I’d want, I’d want to marry you before I left.”
That was rather more than she’d expected him to say, and all she could do for a minute was blink at him. Blessedly, he didn’t rush her. Finally, she gave in, and said what had first come to mind. “You barely know me. Or how we might be together.”
“I know enough.” He shifted to take both her hands, holding them firmly. “You are kind, and clever, and you are stubborn, and there is no one I want more on my side than you. I know you won’t give up on me. And you won’t let me get away with being less than I could be.”
He stopped, as if this mattered more to him than anything else. When he went on, his voice was full of a needy desire. “Every other nurse was content just to dump potions down me, and turn on the lights. You looked at me, and you thought about what I needed. I know you must do that for all your patients, but you also haven’t denied this is different.”
She nodded, looking at him, then down at their hands. “Would you want me to stop nursing?”
“Goodness, no. I don’t know what I’ll be doing, but whatever it is will either be in Trellech or near a portal, or somewhere you can’t go with me. I’d much rather you do something useful. Though perhaps we could set up in a proper flat, instead of your rooming house with the disapproving landlady.”
That made Elen grin despite herself. “I understand one can rent flats, yes, if one has more of an income than I do.”
“Money, you may have gathered, is not a particular problem on my end. I have an inheritance and my own salary. And I’ll inherit a couple of homes in various places in due course, though I hope very much not for a long time to come. They take rather a lot of upkeep.”
Something in his tone amused her. “Not up for the effort?”
“Not any time soon, no. But I could take you to see them, when it’s more rehabilitative? If you can get away.”
Elen let out a long breath. “I honestly don’t know what the future holds. I was so pleased to be back at the Temple. And some of it has been grand. You, of course. And Healer Rhoe. Though she’s also a little bit scary?” Roland grinned at her, and Elen went on. “But I don’t know now. After all this.”
He nodded, more soberly. “I felt the same thing, after seeing the orders we were getting. Like I’d been betrayed. Not me, exactly, not personally. But my ideals. Knowing that there were people above me, people with power, who didn’t seem to care what happened to me, to any of us.”
“That, yes, that exactly.” She inhaled sharply, squeezing his hands. “And I don’t know if I want to be around that.” She hesitated. “If there’s anywhere that isn’t like that.”
“And I don’t know if I want to go back to fighting, even if I can. Even though my family, back generations, has been career military, one way or another. Back to the Pact, near enough. Not always successfully, there were some unfortunate moments in the Jacobin rebellion and the Civil War.”
That made her smile again, and look up. “You don’t know about the fighting?”
Roland shook his head. “I need to talk to Father, I think. In private, when we know how much I’ve truly recovered. Certainly about my concerns, since he’s in a position to do something about them.”
“That, that’s something. He’ll at least hear you out.” Elen then swallowed. “You should have a proper supper. Do you want me to go see about something more than the tea sandwiches?”
“Oh, I can ring. No need to make you fetch and carry. I suspect they do something like a cottage pie here. What would you like?”
The cheerful discussion of what food was likely available, and what she’d prefer, carried them off into other topics. It was only when Elen was falling asleep, much later that night, with the door open between their rooms so she could hear if he needed anything, that she realised she’d never given him a proper answer, if that had in fact been a proposal.
Chapter 38
Saturday, May 29th
Two days later, Elen came back from her shift tending the Temple shrines, to hear voices coming from Roland’s room.
Not just voices, but laughter. She’d thought he’d be reading after his bath.
She knocked once on the door, with a “Hello?”
Perched on the end of the bed was an exceedingly well-dressed woman. Her dress was of the sort of deep radiant blue that made it clear the silk was dyed with charms as well as plants, of a nubbly raw silk that fell in flattering lines. Behind her, over the end of the bed, was a swath of blue-green silk, what might be a coat that would drape and highlight her form, and a matching hat and purse.
Her dark hair was pulled up in a precise smooth chignon, with a single hairstick apparently holding it all in place effortlessly. Her skin was the only odd note, more tanned by the sun than most women in Albion would permit.
She was holding a small box out to Roland, who was sitting on the bed, fully dressed. The woman turned as Elen knocked, and Elen could immediately see the similarity of their faces, at the same angle. This must be his mother.
“Hello, dear. You must be Therapeutes Morris. Candied ginger? I brought Roland a hamper, of course.”
Before she could speak, Roland spoke, sounding more amused than anything else. “Close the door, perhaps, Elen? Elen, this is my mother, Melusina Gospatrick. Mother, Elen Morris.”
Elen resisted the urge to curtsey. Barely. She took a couple of steps forward, and took a piece of the ginger. “Thank you, Magistra Gospatrick.” She glanced around the room, then realised the size of the hamper that had been delivered.
It was of bleached white wicker, and more than big enough to move a moderately large body, if required. It must have taken two people to bring in, at least. She took a deep breath. “Were you expecting to need to smuggle Roland out? He might be a bit cramped, even in that.”