by Anne Renwick
He shook his head.
“A day?” Nothing. “An hour?” Her voice sounded a touch panicked even to her own ears.
A ragged breath. “May be too late already.”
This was much worse than she’d expected. She’d counted on time. Time to test the neurachnid. Time for the amatiflora to be forced into bloom. Time, a resource denied to them.
If there was nothing to lose…
Nicu appeared in the doorway. “Now. What is to be done?”
Thornton’s face was contorted in a grimace, his breaths coming fast and shallow. Amanda stood and crossed to Nicu’s side. She pulled the neurachnid from her reticule and held it out to him. Quietly, she outlined their current predicament.
He took the spider gingerly in his arthritic fingers, examining it closely from every angle. A smile carved itself into his face. “I taught you well.”
“You did.” She glanced at Thornton. “His injury, while old, is not deep or extensive. I have the spider. I have the necessary Babbage card.” She shook her head. “I’m not certain if I have enough nerve agent, but the window of opportunity is closing.”
He nodded. “If not closed already.”
Doubt crept in, but she went bravely on. She loved Thornton and would do all she could to save his leg and see his career—in its entirety—saved. “What I do not have is a calm, relaxed patient. His nerves are irritated and his muscles are in a state of chronic tension and are becoming ischemic; no blood is flowing through them. For the spider to work, he must be relaxed.”
“Opium,” Nicu pronounced. Amanda stared in open-mouthed disbelief as Nicu turned and pulled a long pipe and a small lamp from a box. “I am an old man with many aches. Opium will relax. Calm. Stop the pain.”
Thornton moaned, and she turned. The effects of withdrawal had spread to his arms. Bent at uncomfortable angles, they seemed to hover above the mattress, locked in position. She lowered herself onto the stool once more, turning his face toward hers. Stiff neck muscles resisted her efforts. “Listen. I have all I need to attempt a repair of your leg.”
“No.”
She held his head tight as he tried to pull away. “Why not?”
“No nerve agent.” Sweat beaded on his forehead, his eyes over-bright.
Amanda pulled the vial from her reticule and held the green fluid before his eyes. “I have some. With the remaining extract, I mixed a small amount of the drug.”
His head jerked to the side, neck muscles in a spasm. “Probably won’t work. Not enough.”
“There’s no way to know without trying,” she insisted. How could he believe she would give up and let him lose the function of his leg without attempting the procedure? Her stomach clenched. Ned. She’d put her brother ahead of him. Never again. “I had a Babbage card designed to correct your specific problem.” Amanda thought it best not to mention that it was Olivia’s first foray into anatomical matters. He didn’t respond. “Nicu has some opium. Will you at least let us ease the pain?”
A jerk of the head. Yes.
The older man lit a small brass lamp and affixed a glass chimney to it. Amanda watched, fascinated, as he dropped a tiny amount of opium into a white, ceramic bowl attached to the long stem of the pipe and began to heat the opium. A sweet smoke began to rise from the pipe. He waved her away, taking her place by Thornton’s side. “Breath this in, my lord,” he said, holding the pipe to Thornton’s mouth.
As the minutes passed, Thornton began to relax, his body seeming to sink more deeply into the mattress.
“Better, my lord?”
“Much,” Thornton breathed, his eyes glassing over. “Thank you.”
Nicu nodded. “Now. About this surgery. Sometimes promises must be broken.”
“No.” His voice sounded empty, as if he had given up.
Amanda wanted to scream her frustration. The stubborn man.
“What have you to lose?” Nicu asked. “If you decline, you will depend upon machinery to move freely. My Amanda is brilliant. I believe in this spider, as do you, you who took her into your laboratory. Trust her. Let the spider do its task. She tells me it works quickly.” He shrugged. “What have you to do for the next few hours but lie about and wait?”
Thornton said nothing.
Nicu went on, “Would you leave me, an old man, to defend your woman while this Henri, this murderer, walks free?”
“Not mine.” His eyes closed.
Amanda stepped forward.
Nicu held up a hand and shook his head, telling her to stay back. “I am no blind fool. She is yours. Do you think to keep her safe this way?” He paused and waited.
Thornton said nothing.
“Then you are the fool.” Nicu pushed to his feet. “Leave the job to other men, better men. Sit back and wallow, while others do all the work. Perhaps the outcome will meet your expectations.”
A rumble started deep in Thornton’s chest. “Do it.” But he did not open his eyes. He did not look at her. How it must hurt him to cede control, a man used to giving orders, not taking them. Used to solving problems, not being one. Used to performing experimental surgery, not being the subject.
Nicu nodded. “Good. I began to think Lady Amanda chose poorly.” He turned back to her. “Now. What do we do?”
“He cannot move during the procedure; the spider must not be jarred. First, we make certain he’s comfortable, as much as possible. Then we must tie him down.” Together, they wrestled off Thornton’s coat. His muscles responded oddly. Some seemed fixed and tense. Others were strangely pliable. “The brace on his leg must be removed. We need a blanket to fold beneath his leg. Alcohol—vodka will do—and a sharp knife. A flame.” To both cleanse his skin and sterilize the blade. “And clean rags.” For the inevitable blood.
“More opium,” Nicu added.
“More opium,” she agreed. “As much as you have.”
She would never forgive herself if this didn’t work.
~~~
Thornton struggled to focus through the muddled haze that his mind had become. Between the aftereffects of the Somnic and the current effects of the opium, he could feel, but not move. Or, rather, move only with great effort and concentration and will.
But he was losing the will to try.
His arms were wrestled from his coat and bound to the bed. Sounds of fabric being rent reached his ears, and his lower leg met with warm air, then the chill of cold liquid. Vaguely, it occurred to him to be grateful that he’d instructed Amanda on the sterilizing properties of alcohol.
The pipe was pressed to his lips at regular intervals and he inhaled deeply, inviting in the sweet haze. Worry faded into soft bliss. Her soft hand was brushing across his damp brow, fingers threading through his hair. He smiled.
“Sebastian?”
“Mmm.” Never had the sound of his given name sounded so wonderful.
“It’s time.”
“Mmm.” Her fingers kept stroking his hair. It felt heavenly. All was right with her by his side. “Mine,” he said.
The fingers paused. “What?” she whispered.
“Mine,” he repeated, uncertain why he felt such a forceful need to claim her. “You’re all mine. No one else.”
The fingers began to move again. He struggled to move his arms, but couldn’t seem to pull them from his side. His side. That was where she needed to be. Always. He forced open his weighted eyes and found her staring down at him, her expression unreadable. “Say it. Promise me. You’re mine. All mine.” The room spun, a whirl of color.
“I’m yours, Sebastian,” she whispered back. She pressed a kiss against his forehead and his eyes slid shut. “Later we’ll discuss if you are to be mine.” Her tone grew harder. “This will hurt. We’ve bound you as securely as possible. Nicu will hold you still. Try not to fight him. Are you ready?”
“For?”
She sighed. “The neurachnid. The spider.”
Right. Gold threads. Missing eyes. Betrayal.
She moved
away. Took away her soft hands. Her voice. Her presence. Hard, rough and calloused hands bore down on him, pressing him into the bed.
Then, for a moment, he felt her soft hands again on his bare leg. And then pain unlike any he’d ever known sliced through him. His heart pounded against his chest. Blood rushed past his ears and eyes, deafening him, blinding him. His lungs could not pull in enough air.
A pricking of the skin on his leg. Reason forced itself cruelly upon him. Amanda was repairing his leg. Or, rather, her neurachnid was. Tiny sharp needles seemed to grab hold, testing, prodding until they quite literally struck a nerve.
His eyes flew open, but saw only flashing lights and black spots. The pain was excruciating.
Then the spots spread like ink blots, melted into each other and began to flow across his mind bringing the blissful black of senselessness.
Chapter Thirty-Five
WITH TINY, NEAT, perfect stitches, Amanda closed the wound.
There was some muscle atrophy, and the brace would be necessary until he regained his strength, a week or two at most. All indications pointed to the spider having rewoven the nerve successfully. Infection was the only pressing concern. While Thornton was still mercifully unconscious, she poured more vodka over the incision site and bandaged his leg. She had every reason to believe the procedure was successful, though she wouldn’t know until he woke.
“Thank you,” she said to Nicu.
“You are very welcome,” he answered. “Your family and mine, we are tied by bonds that cannot be broken.” A frown cut into his features. “We will see Henri stopped. Justice will be served.”
Did the gypsies plan to assist in apprehending Henri? Amanda’s lips twitched at the thought of how Black and his men would react to the sudden swelling of their ranks.
There was a whistle from the front of the vardo, followed by a smattering of Romani. Nicu stood. “No news yet. I will wait outside. See he rests.”
She lifted the knife she’d been given, but used it this time to cut the bindings holding Thornton’s wrists in place. She caught up one hand and began to massage the stiff muscles, wishing the side effects of the Somnic could be willed away. Slowly, his long fingers relaxed, curling gently in her cupped palms. Encouraged, she moved on.
Her fingers worked a cufflink free, setting it carefully to the side. She rolled up his shirtsleeve, admiring his wide wrists and brushing her palm over the sprinkle of dark hairs that covered his forearms. Pressing her thumbs into the dense musculature there, she admired their quiescent strength, marveled at all he’d done with them. These were the arms, the hands, the fingers that worked magic in the laboratory. On her.
Her face grew hot.
But there was lust and there was love.
It occurred to her that somewhere along the way, at some time during these past two weeks, she’d managed to lose a part of her heart to this man.
She leaned forward, her fingers sliding beneath his rolled sleeves, pressing into thick muscles. His arm flexed, his hand curled about her hip. She glanced at his face. Beneath half-open, unfocused eyes, he seemed to watch. Her fingers stilled, but he was not truly awake. For a long moment she let herself stare back into those eyes and wonder.
What would it be like to truly belong to this man? To have him belong to her? To live a life together?
Of all the times to contemplate such questions. What a disaster her life was. Luca gravely injured. Emily panicked. Olivia and Mother hysterical at the social implications. Ned distraught at the effects of his own selfishness. Her own would-be-fiancé complicit with a murderer yet still having the nerve to declare his love for her. Father attempting damage control and quite probably regretting any free will he’d ever granted his children.
All while she’d absconded with her lover and mentor, performed experimental surgery in the back of a gypsy wagon and waited to assist in the apprehension of a murderous German spy.
There was nothing to do but press onward, see this thing through to its conclusion.
Mine. In a delirium of opiate-induced fog, he’d spoken words that cut right to the core of her.
Yes, she was his, but unless he’d also lost a piece of his heart to her, this, whatever it was between them, had to stop. She’d been wrong to think she could settle for status as his lover, to consent to an ongoing affair conducted in the shadows. One where she must constantly worry about discovery, worry that she would be cast out from the medical community in shame.
She would not press him for more. He’d been clear from the beginning, when she forced him to acknowledge the attraction between them, that he did not want a wife. When he emerged from this fog a whole man once more, she would step aside. Her research project was complete. Once the situation with Henri was resolved, they would go their separate ways, parting as friends and colleagues.
She would perform the surgery once more upon her brother, and if—when—Ned walked once more under his own power, her success in the medical community would be assured. Under the cloak of secrecy, Thornton and Lady Huntley would use her neurachnid to install their devices and, with his leg repaired, Thornton would once again accompany Black into the field.
His head jerked in her direction, his unfocused eyes open again, but this time, he spoke. “Sorry,” he rasped. “So sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” she prompted, curious.
But he only shook his head.
“Let me get you some water.” She tried to pull away, but his fingers had curled around her elbow and held tight. She tried to maintain a clinical mindset, telling herself she was glad to feel the return of some muscle control. Yet as his dark blue eyes stared up at her, she found herself waiting. Waiting for… something.
“So many dead. My fault. I brought him here.” His eyes fought a battle to stay open—but lost.
Ah, she understood now. Guilt. He felt responsible for Henri’s actions, for the death of all the gypsies that died in the madman’s quest to install the phaoscope.
“No. None of this is your fault.” She smoothed the hair from his brow. “You are not responsible for the evil actions of another. Not Lord Huntley’s or Henri’s deeds. This is not your fault,” she repeated.
His head jerked away from her touch, then rocked on his pillow, disagreeing. “It is. Gypsies. Your family. You.” He sighed, slipping deeper into his fog. “Mine. The woman I love. All ruined.”
She shook his shoulder. She needed to hear it again. “The woman you love?”
“Mmm.”
“Thornton?” She hesitated. “Sebastian?”
It was no good; he’d slipped back into his drugged sleep.
Amanda wanted to scream. She disliked this foggy, cryptic version of him. Terse but direct was vastly preferable.
Because he’d left her wondering. Could he possibly be speaking of her? Did he love her, fear he’d ruined her with their affair? Or did he speak of his former fiancée, who had cried off shortly after his injury occurred, wanting no future with a damaged man? Was it possible Thornton loved her, Lady Anne, despite her abandonment?
She pulled away from his limp grasp and stood. Anything was better than sitting there staring at the man she loved, wondering if her sentiments were returned.
Amanda stepped through the partition, walking past the hundreds of boxes containing an endless assortment of clockwork pieces, and climbed down the curved stairs onto the street.
A short distance away, Nicu stood beside another gypsy, Milosh, his assistant. Their heads were bent close together. She could not understand the Romani they spoke, but their tightly controlled voices spoke of disagreement.
“What is wrong?” she asked.
Their heads jerked up. Nicu patted Milosh on his shoulder, pushing him away. He left, but not before she saw an intense look of dislike and distrust on his face. An all too common reaction to a gadji who made a nuisance of herself by hanging about gypsy vardos.
“A bit of trouble finding Nadya, that is all,” Nicu answered.
Amanda’s eyebrows rose. “Do you think…?”
He shook his head. “She was seen recently in the company of a woman who sought to have her future read in tea leaves. We will find her. Let us worry about it. Is your man recovering?”
Her man. Perhaps he was. For now. “Sleeping,” she answered. “Has there been no word from Mr. Black?”
Nicu looked confused for a moment. “Your Queen’s man, right?”
She nodded.
“No. Nothing. Perhaps he has already apprehended Henri and is busy with retribution.”
She frowned. If Black had caught Henri, he, or one of his men, would have arrived with the news. No. Whatever kept Black from contacting them must be of the utmost importance. Unless he had also been unable to contact Father? She should send word, assure her family of her safety. “Will you send someone to my father’s house? Let them know we are here?”
Nicu gestured to the clockwork horse attached to his vardo. “I could take you there, but should he be moved?”
“No,” she said. “Probably not. A message should suffice.” Likely Father’s men would then arrive to assure themselves of her safety.
“Very well,” he nodded. “I will send a boy.” Nicu tipped his head. “Will you rest as well? Or is there something more?”
Just the general unease of being relegated to the fringes while others sought to apprehend the eye doctor. The unease of not knowing what developments had taken place. “No. Thank you. I’ll see to Lord Thornton.” She waved a hand in the air toward the door of the vardo.
Nicu nodded politely.
Inside, Amanda busied herself setting the small space to rights, then sat down again beside him on the low stool and spread a clean cloth across her lap. She set about cleaning the neurachnid in extreme detail. Each gear, each spring, each pincer. She tugged the Babbage card Olivia had punched free, returning it to her reticule. It had worked well. Like it or not, Olivia’s talent with mechanical creatures, both steam and clockwork, showed much promise.