The Lady in the Coppergate Tower (Proper Romance)

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  “You’ll not play irresponsible with her health, I presume.”

  “The wound is severe, Petrescu, but I shall do everything in my power to save her.”

  “I speak of Hazel.”

  Hazel looked at her uncle. Sam must have been equally surprised; his pause was telling.

  “Naturally, I would never put Hazel in harm’s way. Her role, however, is not one that poses significant risks. I’ll perform the procedure myself to insure it goes as planned.”

  “And your intimacy with her as a close friend will not impede your skills?”

  Sam requested a length of tubing and needles from Eugene. “It has not been an issue, to date. I saved her life once, and I have repaired broken bits and pieces ever since.”

  He looked at Hazel, but his smile was fleeting. He coated her arm with cleansing fluid from a corked bottle while still speaking to the count. “I confess, I thought you would be more concerned with Miss Tucker’s welfare. I understand she is not family and Hazel is, but Sally is, by far, in greater danger.”

  “I have every confidence in your surgical skills.” Dravor’s glance flicked from Sally to Hazel.

  Sam measured a length of tubing and draped it across Hazel’s midsection so he could prepare Sally’s arm for the other end of the transfusion tubing. “Eugene, the patient’s pulse strength?”

  “The patient’s pulse is weaker, sir,” Eugene said.

  Sam hurriedly ripped Sally’s sleeve along the seam and then prepared the final steps for the transfusion. He put his hand on Hazel’s arm. “You are ready?”

  “Be quick.” Hazel looked over at Sally. “She does not appear to have much time left.”

  She ran her fingertip along the gold chain at her wrist. As always, the soothing warmth made its way through her, and she relaxed.

  Sam made quick work of the needle insertion, first on Hazel, and then Sally, and connected the tubing. He glanced at Hazel several times as if to assure himself of her continued stability while continuing to receive updates from Eugene regarding the patient.

  Hazel closed her eyes and imagined sharing her sense of calm with Sam, wishing she were somehow clairvoyant.

  Sam quietly instructed Eugene and the three other ’tons as he began treatment for Sally. They worked efficiently and well. Sam seemed calm, and expressed irritation only in the smallest of terms when Eugene did not anticipate his needs.

  “We’ve done this sort of procedure before,” Sam said to Eugene as they worked. “Do you not remember?”

  “I remember, sir. I do not have the capacity to act before you instruct.”

  “I am now giving you permission to act before I instruct.”

  “My sincerest apologies, but that is an impossibility.”

  Sam rolled his eyes as he stemmed the flow of blood from Sally’s deep wound. “Never in a million years did I think I would miss . . .” he muttered. He stabilized the bleeding, told one of the ’tons to maintain pressure on the wound, and removed the tubing from Hazel’s arm. He held a cloth to the pinprick, and when she brushed his hand aside so she could hold the cloth herself, he smiled.

  “Do you know yet if the damage is extensive enough to require deeper procedures?” she asked.

  He lifted a shoulder. “Not certain, yet, but I am hopeful the solution will be relatively simple. Please remain on the table for now and rest. You’ll experience light-headedness for a time.” He instructed one of Dravor’s ’tons to retrieve a cup of tea for her.

  “Do not look so worried, Sam, I am perfectly well.”

  He glanced at her with a distracted smile. “Using you as an emergency blood donor is not something I would choose.”

  Dravor had remained a silent observer; Hazel had nearly forgotten he was in the room. She turned her head on the gurney to look at him, and he smiled. “A relief to see you well.”

  “Thank you, Uncle.” She paused. “I was unaware of your blood illness. I am sorry to hear of it.”

  He smiled. “A token from a mentor, but one man’s plague is another man’s gift.”

  She frowned. “Perhaps Dr. MacInnes might know of a treatment.”

  “Ah, if only. There is no cure for my malady, but I have altered my life accordingly.”

  The ’ton returned with a cup of tea for Hazel, and she sat up on the gurney. She was light-headed, but none the worse for wear.

  Sam suddenly swore, focusing even more intently on Sally, and his jaw clenched. Sweat dotted his brow, and though his movements remained steady and sure, Hazel felt a ripple of unease. “Assess vital measurements,” Sam barked at Eugene.

  “Pulse weak. Oxygen levels depleting.”

  Hazel set her cup aside and shifted to the edge of her gurney. Sally’s face was obscured by the operating mask, and Hazel felt a moment of panic. Eugene appeared to be proficient enough, but Hazel wondered if she had been right to pull his higher-level tins so quickly. Her eyes filmed, and the image before her blurred. She knew little to nothing about Sally, but it was clear that she must have been terrified before this strange string of events unfolded.

  She reached over and took her limp hand, uneasy at the cold feel of her fingers. She focused her thoughts and envisioned Sally’s full return to good health. She imagined the bruised and broken blood vessels healing, the internal organs responding to Sam’s care. Her gold chain bracelet reflected a soft, subtle glow of light. She touched the metal to Sally’s hand, wishing she could impart the warmth she felt to the stricken young woman.

  Desperate to help, wishing she could do more, she rested her head next to Sally’s arm and closed her eyes. She was tired and was fighting alternating waves of fear, dizziness, and light-headedness. She slowly found herself in that strange space between consciousness and dreams.

  Marit was watching her with wide eyes. She reached for Hazel, but couldn’t grasp her hand. She sang a soft tune in a language Hazel didn’t understand. Romanian—of course it would be Romanian. Hazel had studied German and French.

  She breathed in, her eyes still closed, and tightened her fingers gently on Sally’s. As she floated in the space between Marit and the infirmary far beneath the ocean waves, the words of the song found their way into Hazel’s thoughts, and she quietly whispered along.

  She was barely aware of her surroundings. She distantly heard her uncle’s voice, and Sam’s sharp command for the man to stay back.

  Her eyes fluttered open, and she sensed Sam’s attention on her for a fraction of a moment. His demeanor had relaxed by small degrees, his jaw unclenched and the creases between his brows smoothed.

  “Vitals,” he said to Eugene.

  “Improving, sir.”

  Hazel breathed a sigh of relief, wary of premature celebration, but feeling her spirits lift. She closed her eyes again and kept her fingers clasped around Sally’s. Warmth and light . . . golden bright . . . She envisioned every good, miraculous thing she could think of, then deepened her breathing and imagined she was breathing for the two of them—for herself and for Sally, who now shared her blood.

  She lost track of time, and she was surprised when Sam gently removed her hand from Sally’s. She opened her eyes to see Sam’s, so close to her own she thought she might drown in their depths.

  Eugene and the other ’tons quietly moved Sally behind a curtain that they closed for privacy.

  “What . . .” Sam shifted his hip against Hazel’s gurney and ran his hand through his hair and over his face. He looked exhausted. “What did you just do?”

  Hazel swallowed. She glanced at the closed curtain, and her heart thumped. “Did I do something? I . . . What did I do?”

  “I don’t know,” Sam said. “Whatever it was, I felt it. My mind grew clearer, and the patient began responding well to the procedure. The whole room felt calm.”

  Hazel thought for a moment. “I meditated, envisioned a good outcome. I saw .
. . I saw Marit; I heard her. And I sang something she was singing.” She shrugged, suddenly very tired, and her eyes blurred with tears. “I don’t know.”

  “It was a good thing,” Sam said, his smile wry. “I believe perhaps your healing gift aided Sally just as you helped me earlier when I was out of my head.” He paused. “Do you speak Romanian?”

  She shook her head. “I do not.” She frowned. “I do know what I said, though. Something about warmth and light, a poem.”

  He smiled again and leaned in, kissing her forehead. “Think about it later. Right now, I suspect you could use a rest. I know I could.” He removed his surgical smock and balled it up, tossing it in a corner bin. “Petrescu sent word that dinner will be available whenever we are ready.”

  “What time is it?” Hazel fumbled for her pocket watch.

  “Late.” He took her hand and helped her down from the gurney. “The ’tons will take the patient to a post-operative bedroom next door, and I’ll check her recovery periodically.”

  “Are you willing to put her in the room next to mine? I would rather keep her close.”

  “I suppose so. I’ll instruct the ’tons to clean the room, and we’ll move her soon.” He paused. “Hazel, she was floundering. I feared I was going to lose her. I don’t know I could have done this successfully without you.”

  Hazel blushed and scrambled to turn attention away from herself. “Uncle Dravor is pleased, I assume?”

  Sam rubbed his eyes and held the infirmary door open for her. “Who would know,” he muttered as they skipped the Grand Staircase and opted instead for the lift. “He seemed quite pleased at your involvement, that was evident.”

  “My involvement?”

  Sam nodded and closed the lift gate. The gears engaged and lifted the cage upward. “When he saw you holding Sally’s hand, meditating or praying, he seemed almost euphoric. Wanted to come closer. I finally ordered him out of the room, though he returned two more times that I noticed, peering inside the room. He seemed focused on you, rather than Sally.”

  Hazel tapped her finger restlessly against her leg, wary of the fact that her uncle seemed to know so much more about her than she knew of him. “Marit was here.” She tapped her forehead. “In here. He must have known, or suspected it. Perhaps he is hopeful that I might find a cure for her madness.”

  “What exactly do we know about your birth mother?” Sam asked as they exited the lift and made their way down the hall to their suites.

  Hazel shrugged. “He has said only that she was his sister, gave birth to me and another baby girl, and then the midwife sold me to Rowena. Our mother died shortly after we were born, followed soon by our father.”

  They reached their suites and stopped. “Oh!” Hazel reached into her skirt pocket and closed her fingers around a stack of cold metal rectangles. “Eugene’s tins. I didn’t have an opportunity to run them through the reader in the Tesla Room. I don’t believe for a moment he attacked Sally, or chased her.” She lowered her voice. “Renton is involved, I’m sure of it, and he is trying to deflect his guilt onto Eugene.”

  Sam took the tins from her. “I’ll analyze these myself right now. Where is the Tesla Room in this death trap?”

  She couldn’t help but smile, and pointed upward. “Deck One, just off the library. Would you like me to join you?”

  “No, you freshen up and rest. I’ll come to you when I finish.”

  Her lips twitched in another smile. “Eugene was concerned you would prefer him ‘bland and boring.’ I gave him my word I would have him restored to his proper glory, so do make haste.”

  “Never thought I’d miss him, but he’s right. He was bland and boring, and I didn’t much care for it.” He paused. “Hazel, again, thank you. Today was . . . You were . . .” He brushed his thumb across her cheek and dropped his hand. “I’ll return straightaway. Lock your door, yes?”

  She nodded, and as she locked the door behind her, she heard footsteps receded. She released a breath and rubbed her arms, which were suddenly chilled. She retrieved her ray gun and a small knife from her trunk and placed them within easy reach of her bed. She might not be as competent as Isla, but she could do some damage to an opponent, should one decide to visit. She was certain of one thing—she wouldn’t surrender without a fight.

  She rose from the bed, awakened from sleep by a sense of despair that nearly overwhelmed her. She walked around, and around, and around, never finding the door, never able to see beyond the world outside her single window. The room turned slowly, continually, offering her a glimpse of the world from every angle, but never an escape. She loved the room, and she hated the room. It was her prison and her sanctuary.

  She read so many books; he always brought her things to read, and she never forgot a word. She learned languages, histories. She learned of places and people and things, yet she was trapped! Eternally trapped! She imagined a life outside the room, a life with people to meet and things to do. She lived it all in her head until she felt mad, evermore increasingly painfully mad . . .

  Around and around and around the room, and now the other direction. Perhaps the woman in the mirror would visit again tonight, the woman who looked just like her. The woman who could go and do and be, the one she loved and hated . . .

  If she moved faster, if she ran in circles, around and around and around, maybe something would change! She would laugh and sing! She would see the world and all of its treasures, instead of spinning and spinning and hearing her own voice scream inside her head that she wanted to get out! Out of her head, away from the room, into the trees! Out! Out!

  “Hazel!”

  Her head hurt. She collapsed to the floor, clutching fists of her hair close to the roots, her fingers tightening until her nails sank deeply into her palms. A scream echoed around the walls of her room, followed by frantic sobs that escaped her throat. She touched her forehead to the floor, welcoming the feel of the textured carpet that helped ground her in reality.

  The low hum of the Magellan’s engines vibrated through the floor, quiet, rhythmic, comforting. An insistent pounding on the door was jarringly at odds with the sound.

  “Hazel! Open the door!” Sam’s loud voice was muffled by the locked door.

  She inhaled deeply, trying to calm her racing heart. Her throat hurt, and her head pounded, even when she forced her fingers to relax their painful grip on her hair. Sam pounded again on the door, and she heard him murmuring something, probably to Eugene. She shoved herself off the floor and stumbled to the door as the sounds of scratching on the lock indicated an attempt to open it.

  Light from the hall arced into the room by degrees as the door swung wide. Sam rushed inside. He grabbed her shoulders and looked into her eyes, from one to the other, and then at her arms, her torso, down the front of her nightgown. His fingers tightened. “What happened? Hazel!”

  “I don’t know . . .” She looked at him in fear, and then slowly around her cabin. Her portmanteau had been knocked off its perch on her travel trunk. Her journal, books, and toiletries were strewn on the floor as if swept aside by a flailing arm.

  She drew in a shuddering breath. “I do not know! Sam . . .” She clutched his shirtfront, terror creeping into her throat. “I do not walk in my sleep, I— This is not me!”

  “Shh, I have you.” Sam pulled her close against his chest and wrapped his arms around her, gently rubbing her back. He said something quietly to Eugene, and she heard the door click closed.

  She kept her eyes squeezed tightly shut. Tears seeped from the corners and fell onto Sam’s shirt. He held her for a long time until she finally calmed, her racing heart slowed, and she was able to draw a stable breath. He guided her to the settee near the hearth and pulled her down next to him. He kept an arm around her and reached for one of her hands, which he held securely, rubbing his thumb softly across her knuckles.

  “Are you hurt anywhere?” he asked qu
ietly.

  “My head.” Hazel sniffled and dabbed at her nose, looking uselessly for a handkerchief.

  Sam gave her one from his pocket and then took her hand again.

  “Did I awaken you?” she asked. Another thought struck. “Did I awaken Sally? Is she here? She must be terrified!”

  “No, she’s still in the infirmary. I’ve been sitting with her—she’s become feverish. I analyzed Eugene’s tins after checking on her—and thankfully, the results exonerate Eugene from any wrongdoing—and then came up to change into fresh clothes; I heard you crying and then screaming. I assumed you were asleep.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “And you were.”

  “I was in her head, Sam. In Marit’s head. Or she was in mine.” She shrugged miserably. “I must speak with my uncle. She is trapped somewhere, and it is driving her insane.” She looked at Sam, her eyes widening. “Do you suppose he has her locked somewhere? Is he keeping her captive?”

  He frowned. “I wouldn’t think so, however . . .”

  “However?”

  “Perhaps he has restrained her movement for her own protection? He says she’s ill, but you’ve maintained all along that she’s slowly been going mad.” He rubbed her back between her shoulders as if he could soften the blow.

  “She’s been going mad because she’s trapped! What is he doing to her? What does he want from me? And a blood disease? He said he has a blood disease!” Her voice rose, and she heard her own manic fear. “Is he a vampire? He could be taking Assimilation Aid!”

  “Shh, steady, there.” He squeezed her hand. “First things first. I know you have questions, but for now I think it best he has no knowledge of your connection to Marit. Until we can ascertain his motives and the reality of Marit’s situation, we’re better to hide what we know. Would you agree?”

  She hesitated. Logically, he made sense, but enough raw emotion still bounced around in her head to make her want to argue. “What is he doing to her?” she whispered.