by Lara Temple
‘Are you about to be sick?’
‘No. Head.’
Head. A flash of memory returned, of her mother retreating into the darkness of her room. The doctor, a venerable man from Padua, proclaimed hemicrania in the name of science and grief in the name of the soul. He’d prescribed a list of tonics, but admitted that silence, darkness and rest were the only cures he’d found to be universally effective. Sometimes her mother would be violently ill and only then settle into the agonised pain of darkness, but the worst usually passed in a day or so. As in many things Sam and her brothers learned to provide whatever alleviated the symptoms of their mother’s grief, knowing they could never chase it away completely.
Sam inspected the rigid statue seated on her cot as if in the docks awaiting judgement and sighed.
He winced.
She was about to debate taking off his boots when she realised he wasn’t wearing any.
‘When did this start?’ she whispered.
‘S’morning.’
‘It’s noon. Why didn’t you come sooner?’
He didn’t bother answering. She put her arm around his shoulders and guided him down on to the pillow. He was about as helpful as one of the statues he resembled, but she persevered. When his head settled on the pillow he groaned as if she was disembowelling him and she prepared to grab the basin, but he merely grimaced.
‘Too much noise. People.’
Meaning he would not have come even now unless he’d been desperate. She stifled another frustrated sigh; keeping quiet wasn’t her forte but she’d try.
She took the linen strip she used to clean her brushes, dipped it in water and very gently placed it on his forehead. A rivulet ran over his temple and into his hair. His whole body stiffened, but after a moment he seemed to abandon all hope of salvation and gave himself over to agony. She sat beside him, measuring every movement and sound. Even in the dark she could see the flickering of the muscles along his jaw, the tense straining of the tendons of his neck.
She had no idea how much time passed until his body began relaxing. She saw it in the lines about his eyes first, and then his jaw, softening the deep grooves by his mouth. His lips parted a little as if about to speak, but closed again, not quite as tense.
He had a beautiful mouth, drawn with confidence and skill, a mouth a Michelangelo would have paid good money to draw. She reached for her pad, but realised even the sound of pencil on paper might feel like a cannonade to him.
He finally slept, his hands uncurling from their death grips. One arm slipped off the narrow bed and he mumbled, but didn’t wake as she gently draped it back over him. After a while she braved covering him and still later she turned her chair back to the table and began sketching as quietly as she could in the shifting gold glow of the lamp.
* * *
‘Sam...’
She put down her pencil very gently and turned. He was watching her and the fact that his eyes were open without squinting was a very good sign. She smiled.
‘A little better?’
‘Leagues better. I’m sorry.’
‘You’re an idiot. Don’t rise. You need to sleep still.’
‘I should return...’
‘You should sleep. Everyone else is.’
‘What? What time is it?’
‘Some time near dawn, I think they just rang two bells.’
‘I’ve slept...a whole day?’ He sounded appalled. He levered himself very warily into a sitting position and rubbed at his left temple. Hastily she placed a clean sheet of paper over her drawing. She preferred he not know she sketched him while he was unconscious.
‘Still bad?’
‘No, just echoes.’
‘Have you always had megrims?’
He scowled and winced.
‘I do not have megrims. Megrims are what women have when they wish to keep their husband at bay. It was merely a headache.’
‘That is not only very unfair to bedevilled wives but also inaccurate. Megrims are a documented ailment. Doctor Carlucci was an authority on them and he said hemicranias were written about by Galen himself. My mother had them. Did you have these during the war?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Why of course not? Lucas and Chase told me the war did bad things to many soldiers.’
‘True, but it started long after that. About a year after Jacob died. It does not happen often. You need not fear you have wed an invalid.’
‘I fear I have wed the stubbornest man this side of the equator.’
His mouth relaxed and he leaned against the wall, flexing his legs carefully before him. He was so big, he had to angle his stockinged feet away so they wouldn’t slide under her chair. Her own toes curled in against the urge to extend her feet to meet his.
‘We’re a fair pot and kettle then, aren’t we?’ he said. ‘You could give a mule lessons in holding its ground.’
‘A cross between a mountain goat and a mule—two very sturdy animals. You should be grateful you acquired me so cheaply; in Egypt you would have to part with many camels for the privilege of marrying such a sturdy wife.’
He rubbed his jaw, an audible rasp in the quiet of the cabin. Her body tingled and she called it to order. The man was in no state for any of that.
‘Sturdy Sam.’ There was still that smile in his voice and she wondered if it was kind to wish he suffer from megrims more often.
‘That sounds like a poorly named village fair exhibit: Sturdy Sam and her Spectacular Stalactites.’
‘Thank you, Sam.’ His voice was quiet, cutting through her nonsense and flooding her with embarrassment.
‘That is an even worse name. Though it rhymes with Thank you, ma’am. You could have the makings of a limerick there.’
‘You never could take gratitude or compliments very well. I seem to remember the first time I heard you use a profanity was when I told you that you had drawn a fine copy of a wall carving at Karnak. Something about my being related to a dung beetle. I forgot that.’
‘Well, now that you’ve remembered, keep it in mind.’
‘I shall try.’
His smile widened and so did the pit under her feet, but then he frowned.
‘You said you slept. Don’t tell me you slept on the floor, without even a mattress or a pillow!’
‘Of course not. I slept in the hammock.’
He looked in disbelief at the limp hammock hanging from one hook and she laughed.
‘It is true. I mastered the fine art of hanging it and getting in without cracking my skull. I am very glad you were lost to the world, though, because my entry and exit still lack grace, but you are quite right, I slept better than on that rack of a cot.’
He didn’t answer and absurdly she felt a wave of long-forgotten shyness join her embarrassment. She fiddled with her pencil.
‘Are you hungry?’
He stretched again and shook his head.
‘No. My appetite takes a while to recover after having nails slammed into my eye with a sledgehammer.’
‘Is that what it feels like?’
‘Close enough. On a good episode. When I’m not being stubborn and trying to push through it like a good soldier. But I do need to go take care of other more pressing issues. And find my boots. At the moment I can’t remember how or where I took them off.’
He stood very carefully and gave a small sigh of relief. At the door he turned.
‘Thank you, Sam.’
And left.
Chapter Eight
‘He is no warrior,’ Sekhmet scoffed, looking down at Gabriel’s sleeping form, her claws gleaming silver in the moonlight.
Leila cast her shadow between him and the goddess. ‘Yet he did not run with the others. He is here.’
—The Sprite Queen,
Desert Boy Book One
Egyp
t had been moving swiftly towards summer, but England still wasn’t convinced it was spring. The moment they sighted the grey and green coastline the world lost its sunny briskness and sank into a sulking drizzle that lasted all the way to London.
The same grey veil fell on Edge as well. It was his first time back in England in years and he was dreading it. He was even beginning to think fondly of HMS Lark, which was surely a sign of severe desperation. Sam tried to make conversation during the coach ride, but his mind refused to provide anything beyond monosyllables and she finally let him be. He hoped she would attribute it to what she insisted on calling a megrim. He could see the benefits such ailments served. Not that he wanted to keep Sam at bay, he merely...
He didn’t want to be here.
England was not a good place for him. All the light he’d ever really experienced in England was centred on that brief period with Jacob at Chesham House when he’d been shocked to discover he not only loved being a father, but was a good one.
Not a bad brother either—Rafe had surprised both of them by staying at Chesham for almost a year before he had to return to his affairs. Jacob had made the grey Greybournes bloom. And then wither.
Now he was back.
And married again.
It would be a miracle if he didn’t ruin this.
* * *
The carriage clacked to a stop and Edge stepped on to the pavement in front of an imposing Palladian-styled house. Sinclair House presented a perfect façade and probably hid a multitude of sins. He helped Sam descend from the carriage and her hand jerked a little in his, pulling him out of his self-absorption.
‘Sam? What is it?’
She shook her head, the ribbons of her bonnet dancing in the wind.
‘I haven’t been back here since I was a child. My last memory was of fleeing outside into the snow with Lucas and Chase because my father and uncle were trying to run each other through. This was not a happy house. Perhaps after we find Rafe we could return to Qetara?’
She gave a little laugh, as if trying to make light of her words, but he nodded.
‘But by dahabiya up the Nile this time, I’m still aching from that camel ride...’
The door opened and a wiry white-haired man in livery stared at them in disbelief.
‘Miss Sam!’ Aside from being inaccurate, for a servant this greeting was utterly inappropriate, but Sam detached her hand from Edge’s and hurried up the steps.
‘Tubbs!’
Edge’s mother would probably have swooned at such breaches of etiquette. At least the man waited until Sam hurried into the hallway before pressing her hand warmly between his. Sam turned to Edge, her nose red and eyes damp.
‘Edge, this is Tubbs. He always took care of us. Tubbs, this is Edge... Lord Edward Edgerton, my husband.’ She laughed at the butler’s expression. ‘Impossible. I’ve finally succeeded in surprising the imperturbable Tubbs.’
The butler transformed himself into a specimen well suited to Greybourne, his gaze settling somewhere past Edge’s left shoulder.
‘My congratulations, Lord Edward, Lady Edward. Do Lord Sinclair or Mr Sinclair know of this? It was not mentioned.’
‘No, not yet, Tubbs. It was rather a...surprise. Are they here?’
‘Lord and Lady Sinclair are expected back this evening. Master Chase and Mrs Sinclair are in Paris, I believe, or perhaps Switzerland by now.’ His stiffness melted into an affectionate smile. ‘Married. Goodness. Mrs Tubbs will be beside herself. I must see to the rooms. There have been quite a few changes here this past year as you can see, Miss Sa—Lady Edward.’
‘This is only until I make arrangements for accommodation elsewhere,’ Edge interjected, feeling resentful though he did not know why.
Tubbs bowed, resuming his dignity.
‘Of course, my lord.’
Edge set his jaw, but before he could turn to Sam an almighty yowl sounded above them and a black cloud streaked down the stairs. Edge moved between Sam and the projectile, but this was clearly a case of unnecessary chivalry because instead of shredding him, the feline, as the streaking object turned out to be, merely wove with impressive agility between his boots and climbed Sam like a ferret, leaving visible rents in her cloak.
‘Inky!’
Sam laughed and cradled the monster, stroking the purring mass as best she could. The cat tolerated this for a few rumbling beats and then leapt to the ground, directed its snow-capped tail heavenwards and stalked off without a backwards glance.
‘Well, Lady Sinclair will be pleased to see Inky can recover her spirits. She has been sulking since her return from Egypt and there have been no more offerings of mice in inappropriate places for quite some time. Clearly she has missed you, Miss Sam.’
Edge again locked his jaw against a completely incomprehensible urge to correct the butler. It was not like him to care one way or the other about titles and Miss Sam sounded far better than Lady Edward. She sounded like she belonged here.
He, on the other hand...
‘Is my uncle in London, Tubbs?’ Sam asked and Tubbs’s face underwent another transformation, blanking of all expression.
‘I do not know. Shall I make enquiries, Lady Edward?’
‘Yes, please.’
Edge held his peace until Tubbs led them to a drawing room and departed. Sam sat on a pale blue chaise longue with a sigh and cast her bonnet on to a low table. It rolled on to the floor and Edge picked it up, smoothing out the ribbons as tension flicked along his nerves.
‘Sam, we discussed the issue of your uncle...’
‘I don’t think we could call your blank refusal to accept help a discussion.’
‘And we certainly cannot call your refusal to listen to my objections a discussion.’
‘True. Therefore, it is safe to say we did not discuss this, but it is none the less the right course of action.’
‘I am certain your uncle has better things to do than...’
‘Don’t be stuffy, Edge. There is no one better equipped to help you than Oswald. Please stop pacing and sit down.’
He stopped pacing, but kept the length of the room between them.
‘How many times must I make it clear that my brother might well be involved in something which does not bear scrutiny? The last thing I want is to have a representative of the government investigating him.’
‘Oswald would never reveal a confidence and he would never hurt me.’
‘Very touching. You cannot guarantee that and, besides, it is not you he would be hurting but Rafe.’
‘And through Rafe you and through you me. He would not do that. You don’t know him, Edge.’
She held out her hand and his mind ran ahead to whatever rooms this Tubbs was organising for them, but he reined his worst instincts back—he had no time for this. His primary concern at the moment was to find Rafe. Then he would consider his future options, calmly.
‘There is still time for me to see the lawyers today. With any luck Rafe has contacted them and this discussion will prove pointless. Promise me you will not speak to your uncle about Rafe behind my back.’
‘Edge...’
‘Promise me.’
‘I promise I will not mention Rafe until you return.’
‘That is not what I asked.’
‘It is all I will promise at the moment.’
He knew that look—brows lowered, her lips pulling into a pucker that had nothing to do with an invitation to be kissed. She was mounting the battlements again. Somewhere from behind the front ranks of his annoyance he felt a smile forming.
‘Edge.’ The fight melted from her expression and she looked smaller suddenly. He wavered. He really did not wish to go to see the lawyers. He would have given a great deal to go with Sam now and slip into a nice hot bath and into...
There was a sharp hiss and the black cat emerged f
rom beneath the chaise longue, wrapping itself about Sam’s feet and glaring at him. He glared back. What was it called? Inky. He felt he was sinking into some inky substance and it was time to extract himself.
‘Goodbye, Sam. I will return...later. In fact, I ought to go out to Greybourne as soon as possible and speak with the steward there. I might have to stay the night. I shall send word if that is the case.’
‘Of course. Do inform me if you find your brother.’ Her own voice was now as stiff and blank as his.
‘Sam...’
‘You should be off, Edge. It is already afternoon and you have a great deal to do.’
Oh, for heaven’s sake, just leave, man.
He left. He had no patience for himself or stubborn wives or glaring felines at the moment. He wanted peace and quiet.
Not very likely for the foreseeable future.
Chapter Nine
Jephteh’s staff glinted gold in the light of the torches, its tip hovering an inch from Leila’s heart. ‘You may be Queen of Sprites but you too will bow to Jephteh, Priest above all Priests.’
Leila swatted the staff away. ‘I am more likely to bow to a mule’s behind, you rotted carcass.’
—Captives of the Hidden City,
Desert Boy Book Four
The heavy rumble of carriage wheels slowed and Sam looked up from her drawing. It was a bad habit she’d developed since Edge walked out of Sinclair House two weeks ago and disappeared.
‘That’s old Freely’s carriage. He lives across the road,’ Lucas said and Sam detached her eyes from the window and turned to her brother.
He was standing beside Olivia, his hand absently toying with one of her red-brown curls as she bent in concentration over a stack of correspondence arranged with military precision on a large desk.
‘How do you know?’ Sam asked, trying to smile.
Olivia signed and put aside one document and glanced up at Lucas, her hazel eyes warming into honey.