Mortal Fire

by C F Dunn

  He frowned. “Do I frighten you?”

  “No, not really, but I can’t fathom you – your reactions to quite ordinary things are… unpredictable.” My eyes widened as I realized what he had said. “Should I be frightened of you?”

  I couldn’t decipher the glance he gave me.

  “No, of course not; I wouldn’t hurt you.”

  He looked away and a lump of iron formed deep inside me where the warmth and security had been. Like an untuned piano in an empty room, my voice sounded harsh in the silence.

  “What are you trying to say, Matthew?”

  “I’m not saying anything.”

  “Precisely – that’s the point – you keep doing this; you say something loaded with inference, and you then deny it means anything at all. Ugh, that didn’t make sense.”

  I wanted to put my head in my hands and knock some semblance of understanding into it, but I couldn’t, which made it doubly frustrating. He stared despondently at the fire, twisting the ring on his little finger. The note of desperation crept back in again,

  “Emma, I’m sorry – I don’t mean to; I’m not sure how to… deal… with all this.”

  “Deal with what, Matthew? ‘Complications’?”

  His face twisted. “It’s complicated, that’s for sure.”

  “Can’t you just tell me?” I pleaded.

  “I wish it were that simple.”

  “Matthew, it’s as complicated as you want to make it!”

  He drew a hand across his eyes, looking in that instant more vulnerable than I had ever seen before. My heart ached for him. Instinctively I stretched out my hand to touch him, too late to stop myself from over-reaching. An agonizing spasm shot through my fractured ribcage and I squealed in pain. Matthew’s hands shot out, pinning my shoulders to stop me writhing.

  “I’m OK,” I gasped.

  “No, you’re not, let me look. I need you to sit up.”

  In doctor mode – professional, controlled – no sign of the strain was evident from only moments before. I clenched my teeth as he helped me into a sitting position, my breathing shallow and rapid. He lifted the thin T-shirt high enough to undo the strapping holding me together. Although decent enough, I felt exposed and bit my lip.

  “Would you like me to get a nurse?” he asked, with a half-smile. I shook my head, managing a smile in response.

  “I trust you.”

  “I’m not sure if you should.” I shuddered as his hands gently probed my ribs through the bruising, screwing my eyes tight as he found the fractures. “No harm done, you’ve just jarred them. I’ll strap them more tightly – that’ll keep you out of mischief.”

  “I’m hardly in a fit state to get up to anything, let alone mischief,” I panted, trying to draw enough air into my lungs. He didn’t answer, but concentrated on circling the strapping tightly, his head almost level with mine. I resisted the urge to touch his hair, so tantalizingly close.

  “Am I – supposed – to be able to – breathe?”

  His mouth twitched. “You’re all done,” he said, carefully pulling my T-shirt down and easing my legs onto the day-bed. I began to shake, a scattering of goosepimples on my bare arms down to the dressings and casts. He pulled the blankets up and folded them around me. He looked at his watch, then at my paler-than-pale face. Snapping two bi-coloured capsules out of a foil pack for me, he held the glass of water until I could swallow each in turn.

  “I haven’t forgotten, you know,” I said quietly. He raised a speculative eyebrow, turning to secure the clasp on his bag without looking at me. “I would like… no, I need to understand what’s going on, Matthew – and there is something, isn’t there? I don’t know whether I’m coming or going most of the time and it’s beginning to drive me demented. Being with you is like… like riding a roller-coaster, except I don’t know where it’s going.” Deep frown lines appeared between his eyes and the muscles in his jaw contracted sharply. “And before you say or do anything, it’s not right that I can’t ask you something without you reacting… oddly.” My head became slightly fuzzy. He still didn’t look up. “So…?” I insisted, the wooziness now distinctly there, creeping in around the edges of my brain. “Is it so unreasonable of me to ask?”

  He looked at me at last, unexpectedly dejected.

  “No, you’re being very reasonable, very patient – far more than I deserve.”

  My eyes closed without me willing them to, the lids weighted. More than he deserved. Why?

  “How are you feeling now?”

  His voice flowed through me like silver water, making it difficult to catch and hold onto his words.

  “Mmm, that’s not fair – don’t think you’ve got away with it,” I murmured sleepily.

  “I know,” he said, his voice drifting into the distance until it faded altogether.

  Chapter 19

  Incoming

  “MORNING!” ELENA SANG OUT CHIRPILY as she stood over me, beaming. For a moment I didn’t know where I was. “Matthew said it’s OK for me to see you this morning and I thought you might like some tea.” A large mug steamed in one hand; in the other she held a small cactus in a bright-orange ceramic pot.

  “You are an angel of mercy,” I muttered, still groggy after the medication. “Where’s Matthew?”

  She pulled up one of the antique chairs and perched on the edge, waiting patiently for me to inch myself into a position in which I could sip from the mug she held for me without risking burning myself.

  “I don’t know – but he said he will be back soon.”

  “That’s suitably vague,” I groused and then remembered that he had been stuck in the room with me for days and he never complained. I felt duly guilty.

  “Ready…?”

  Elena let me take a few scalding mouthfuls, chasing away the remnants of sleep and making me feel much better and less inclined to grumble.

  “And this is also for you.” She proffered the cactus for my inspection. “When I saw it at the store it reminded me of you.”

  “What – small, stumpy and inclined to prickle?”

  “No!” she laughed. “You are not small and stumpy! You are a survivor. Would you like me to help you with changing today?”

  “Yes – definitely. And thanks for Mr Fluffy, here. He’ll need to be pretty tough to survive with me looking after him.”

  The tortuous process took less time than the day before; it helped that I could lift both arms enough without pain radiating from my ribcage. Elena lent me one of her own capacious woolly jackets, easing the sleeves over my arms. At least I could wear my favourite soft-jersey trousers without any problem. I found it frustrating to be so helpless, with only the tips of my fingers devoid of cast or bandages. I remained dependent on Matthew and Elena for most things and, as I grew stronger, it became increasingly galling to have to ask them for help.

  I lay back on the day-bed, puffing like a clapped-out steam engine but definitely stronger than the day before. Elena folded my towel and put it in a bag for washing.

  “You know, Elena, you are such a good friend; you put up with all my nonsense and I always know where I stand with you.”

  “You think that? Oh!” She glowed, evidently pleased.

  “It seems pretty one-sided at times, though; you’re always helping me out one way or another, like now.”

  “Yes, of course, you are my friend. But you do much for me, Em; who else would listen to this cra-zy Russian girl talk all night about Matias? And you do not boss me, like I boss you, and you do not judge me. I do not know why you put up with me sometimes.”

  “Because you are my friend, even if you do remind me of my mother at times.”

  We stuck our tongues out at each other at the same time and laughed.

  “What about your friends in Britain; you have friends, no?”

  “Ye-es, I do, at least I count them as friends, but… well, oh, I don’t know, yes, they are friends.”

  “You do not seem sure of this.”

  “It’s n
ot them, Elena, it’s me. Sometimes I don’t feel I belong; I might be with my friends but it seems like I’m on the outside looking in, like looking in a… a snow-globe – a great, big snow-globe, or through a window on somebody else’s life; I feel more of an observer than a participant. Does that make sense to you, or is it crazy-girl talk?”

  “Yes, you are a crazy girl – definitely. It is because you are mad about history, I think. If you live always in the past, how can you be part of the present?”

  I looked at her awkwardly. “I’m more comfortable there sometimes – not always, of course,” I added hurriedly, in case she thought that I didn’t appreciate her company. “But there are no surprises in the past – or none that can affect me now – so I feel safer there. Does that make sense?”

  Elena shook her head and tsked at me. “Does Matthew know you think like this? I think he will be very worried for your… your metal health if he did.”

  I laughed, but only partially because of her slip of the tongue.

  “Mental health, I think you mean. I don’t know, but I do think that if anyone would understand, it would be Matthew. He seems to look right inside me sometimes; he knows without me saying anything; he understands.”

  “Not your parents?”

  “No! Definitely not.” That reminded me: “Did Matthew tell you my parents are flying over from England today?”

  Elena pursed her lips. “Will they be coming here? To this room?”

  “No, I’m going back to my apartment. Why?”

  “Oh, you know, people talk – they say things.” She shrugged, busying herself with tidying things away.

  “What sort of things, Elena?”

  She seemed to be having a bit of a struggle fitting all my washing into the bag. She shoved the tag-end of the towel in before looking at me, as if weighing up whether she should tell me the truth or just a version of it.

  “I think they say that it is not normal for the doctor to care for his patient in his own room; they say that you should be in hospital and that Matthew has… other… motives…” She faltered as I glared at her.

  My blood boiled. “Well, they can mind their own blasted business! Who else would have done what Matthew’s done? He saved my life, and now people are gossiping? Ugh, it’s pathetic.” I ground my teeth in rage.

  “Da – yes, I know it is very, very stupid, but Sam didn’t mean to…”

  “Sam? I might have known he’s behind it. What’s he done?”

  Elena chewed her lip. “The police were asking questions about Staahl and that night and about Matthew rescuing you, and Sam mentioned that you had seen him a few times…”

  “Yes – implying what, exactly?” I asked crisply.

  She wriggled uncomfortably on the chair. “I think he thought… that he said… that perhaps Matthew was jealous…”

  “Matthew, jealous? That’s rich coming from Sam. What utter nonsense; what on earth does he think he’s playing at? He’s making trouble – stirring – the stupid, stupid idiot. I hope you don’t believe it,” I challenged her.

  She looked taken aback. “Nyet – of course not, but it is still good you are going back to your own rooms. It will stop the, er, the… the…”

  “Rumours?” Matthew suggested from where he stood by the door, making us both start. Elena looked at the floor, scarlet flooding her fair skin as she avoided his gaze.

  “I’m sorry, Matthew, I shouldn’t have put you in such a position…” I started to say.

  “I’m not,” he said bluntly, “not for me, anyway; I wouldn’t have it any other way, except perhaps, you not being attacked in the first place.” And to my astonishment, he grinned. “It’s all right, Elena, I know about Sam; it’s hardly original.” He glanced sideways at me, his eyes gleaming mischievously. “A complication, perhaps, but then we’re used to those. Your room’s ready when you are, by the way,” he said, turning back to me. “Would you like to go back before or after breakfast?”

  I still fumed. “I think the sooner the better. We can’t have anyone implying that you might be helping me; that really wouldn’t do.”

  He chuckled and I saw he had changed his clothes and shaved, the dusky-blue jumper and plain, open-neck shirt understated and elegant. A blue-grey scarf hung around his neck, emphasizing his shoulders; I found it difficult to remain angry in the face of such a diversion. Elena obviously noticed as well, as she cast furtive glances at him when she thought he wasn’t looking.

  A heady wall of scent met us as he opened the door to my apartment.

  “I hope you like flowers.”

  The whole centre of the low coffee table had become a tumbling mass of foliage and stems. White lilies, with throats of deepest pink, filled the air with their rich fragrance, while blousy, delicate peonies – their fresh scent cutting the sweetness – balanced the perfume. It was an exuberant, extravagant and joyful celebration of life.

  “Oh!”

  Behind us, I heard Elena squeak as she came into the room.

  “Oh good, or oh bad?” he asked.

  “Did you do this?” I demanded. He nodded, unsure of my reaction.

  “I love flowers, thank you so much.” They billowed from my desk and, through the open door to my bedroom, another arrangement filled my bedside table. Elena stood with her mouth open in imitation of a fish; she closed it hastily.

  “I will tell Matias; perhaps he will do something like this for me.”

  I laughed. “But Mr Fluffy must have pride of place. Where would he like to be?”

  She put the pocket-sized cactus on my bookshelf by the window. “It will want only a little water and no food until spring,” she said, doing her best imitation of a school mistress. “Like you.” She went into the kitchen to find a saucer to put it on.

  “Mr Fluffy?” Matthew queried sceptically, eyeing the beguilingly soft-looking ginger-grey tufts on the sturdy little plant.

  “Mm,” I said mysteriously; “it bears a striking resemblance to someone I know.”

  Elena returned with the saucer for the pot and then picked up the canvas bag. “I go now and get this washing done. I will see you later.” She made for the door.

  “Elena – thank you – for everything,” I called after her. She waved an arm in reply as she closed the door behind her.

  I looked up into Matthew’s face. “Thank you,” I breathed. He bent his head towards me, wrapping me in his scent, at once enticing, mesmerizing. I felt the touch of his mouth on mine, gentle at first, igniting the fire in my veins. Different it might be, but I wasn’t going to spoil the moment by reminding him he had some explaining to do. He suddenly pulled back.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked, feeling his rejection. He saw the hurt in my face and gently lowered me into one of the armchairs.

  “You’re so beautiful.” He gave me one of his strange half-smiles, caressing my cheek with the back of his hand, before standing up.

  “So…?”

  “So – I don’t want to lose control.”

  “Would that matter so much?”

  He exhaled. “Yes, it would.”

  He turned towards the mullioned windows without further explanation, the old glass distorting his reflection so I couldn’t interpret the expression he wore. Across the landscape, vibrant trees were spotted with leaves clinging tenaciously to the otherwise bare branches.

  “The sun’s coming out,” he stated flatly. A first faint beam of light stretched across the woodland, catching colours in its rays.

  “You promised you would take me into the mountains,” I said, a little subdued.

  He turned back towards me. “Yes, I did, didn’t I? I will – when you’re strong enough.” He pulled himself together. “Come and have a look in your bedroom,” he invited, holding out his hand. He helped me stand, and I followed him.

  The room was full of flowers, and a fire burned warmly. On the bed, a forget-me-not blue rug lay invitingly soft, its luxurious fleece like cashmere.

  “I thought you might need t
his.” He picked up a knitted jacket in a delicate sage green from the back of the chair, its sleeves wide and flowing, the sculpted bodice flattering. He held it up, looking a little doubtful. “I think it will fit; I’m not used to buying such things but it’ll keep you warm.” He brought it over to me. “Would you like to try it on?”

  “Thank you,” I said, hardly audible.

  He helped me take the heavy, itchy jacket off and replaced it with the sage wool, its soft, light web instantly soothing my irritated skin, creating a layer of comforting warmth. It reminded me of cuddling with my grandmother when I was very young.

  “It’s perfect – thank you.” I sat gingerly on the edge of my bed, suddenly tired.

  “Breakfast time – hungry?” he said, disappearing through to the living-room before I could answer.

  “Famished,” I called after him, surprising myself. I glanced at my bedside clock, its hands ticking its regular beat behind a fern frond; already mid-morning – my parents would be arriving soon and I felt instantly nervous.

  He came back in a moment carrying a tray with croissants and fresh fruit.

  “I’ll help you,” he said before I needed to say anything.

  “Thanks, would you like some?” I offered, but he shook his head and sat at the end of my bed while he tore the warm, flaky pastry into manageable pieces for me. I had enough movement in my fingers to pick each piece up without accompanying torment from my injuries.

  “Are you looking forward to seeing your parents?”

  I finished my mouthful before answering. “Ye-es.”

  “You don’t sound very convinced.”

  “It’s just that I don’t know how they’ll react; I think my mother’ll be fine, but my father can be quite…” I searched for something appropriate rather than damning to say, “… hard work. He’s very protective and sometimes he can get a bit much. He means well, I’m just not looking forward to the interrogation – you know, the who, what, which, why, when bit. I suppose it’s a habit of a lifetime for him.” I ate several cubes of melon and a chunk of pineapple.

  Matthew picked up an escaped crumb that had found its way onto my duvet.