Page 60 of Disturbing the Dead
“Have I not taken you in? Endured your twenty-first-century peculiarities and your inability to start a proper hearth fire?”
“Hey, I learned—”
“I have raised you to the position of my assistant, and allowed you to accompany me on my investigations, even when your recklessness almost gets me killed.”
“My recklessness? How often are you the one leading the charge into danger?”
“Only half the time. You are a bad influence, Mallory, but I allow it.”
I make a rude noise.
His brows rise. “What was that?”
I curtsy. “Please, sir. I do apologize. You are correct. I am the worst influence, encouraging you to embrace your most unsuitable inclinations. I will do better, starting with not giving you this box”—I raise a cardboard box—“of cream pastries that I picked up. Eating sweets is terribly bad for your health, as sure to get you killed as leading you into dangerous situations.”
“You thought to buy me off with pastries?”
“Cream pastries.” I wave the box. “From your favorite shop.”
“I should be offended that you thought me so easily mollified.”
“Delicious cream pastries. Best enjoyed with a coffee and a generous splash of whisky.”
“Which you will enjoy with me, I suppose.”
“Only to keep you company. As your faithful assistant, who really does hate to steal your severed hand and take it to a goblin market.”
He sighs and comes out from behind the desk. “I know. And I hope you know that I was teasing you. Mostly. I am, of course, a little put out, and I may sulk for a while.”
“Understandable.”
“You also did not need to bring me the pastries, though I do appreciate them. Come. Let us enjoy them while we talk, and then perhaps we can examine that hand before you take off with it.”
We end up taking the Hand of Glory to tea. Actually “to coffee,” though that doesn’t sound the same. We retreat to the laboratory and set out the cream pastries on one lovely linen napkin and the severed hand on another… and then lock the door so Mrs. Wallace doesn’t happen by and see what we’re doing with her linens.
I have brought coffee, and Gray has added whisky that is far too expensive to ever be used as a mixer, but what’s the point of having money if you can’t occasionally do gauche things like add single malt to coffee?
We sit on the floor and examine the Hand of Glory while having our little laboratory picnic. We don’t actually touch the hand, of course. Oh, Gray would have, but he knows I frown on handling dead things while eating finger food.
Instead, we visually examine it and use probes. When actual touching is required, we don gloves. Mostly, it’s just an external examination with discussion and note-taking. And cream pastries. Lots of cream pastries. Lots for Gray, at least. I do feel bad about cutting him from the underground-market trip tomorrow, and I make up for it by letting him have four of the half-dozen small treats.
“I would like to cut into the hand,” he says.
“I know.”
“Perhaps take a small piece for testing.”
“I figured you would.”
“Removing a section from the stump would work. As long as it is not readily apparent that we have sliced into it.”
“If someone at this market wants the hand, they won’t care if it’s missing a chunk or two. We can rough it up to look like prior damage.” I eye the blackened and twisted hand. “It’s pretty rough already.”
“Which is to our advantage. I will remove a piece for examination and analysis and then—”
A sound outside the door. We both go still.
“Hello?” I say.
