Page 96 of An Artful Dodge
Her eyes flashed to my pocket and back to my face. She saw I meant it, and there would be no easy disposal of me in the meantime. She shrugged. “Why would I keep her? You’ll have her back as soon as the story runs.”
I started for the door.
“Where are you going?” The tone of her voice turned me back to her. She seemed truly curious, as if now that the end was in sight, and I was no longer her tool, we might return to our former footing. I sensed that she had other questions too—not the least of which was how I’d accomplished the dodge.
“It’s not your concern,” I replied, my voice flat with indifference. “Not anymore. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
It was only half past twelve, with visiting hours another thirty minutes away, but at the hospital in Denmark Street, a surprisingly kind nurse saw me fidgeting on the bench and motioned me over. I asked to see James.
“I suppose you’ll say he’s your brother?” she asked drily.
Clearly, she expected a lie, but I was tired of lying. Tired of double-dealing, of ferreting out other people’s thoughts and motives so I might counter them. Whether she let me in early or not, I’d tell the truth.
“No,” I said simply. “But I love him. He got his leg cut up and broken helping me.”
Her expression softened. “Ah, get on with you, then,” she said, pointing to the flight of steps. “Second story, through the door on the left.”
The unexpected kindness put a lump in my throat. I croaked a thank-you and headed upstairs.
It was a long ward, and I found James halfway down one of the whitewashed walls in a narrow metal bed, with a pocket watch–sized white plaster on his head and a much larger one enveloping the lower part of his leg. His eyes were shut, his cheeks pale under the beginning of dark whiskers, and guilt thickened in my chest at the thought of what he’d done for me, at what might be a terrible cost. All this for someone who would likely be leaving him.
The thought clenched cruelly at my heart.
I couldn’t let him see it. I forced a few measured breaths and composed my face before I put my hand to his shoulder. His eyes fluttered open. His pupils were shining black buttons. Laudanum, no doubt, for the pain.
“Kitten,” he slurred.
Was it a warning?
I leaned in to kiss his forehead. It was cool to the touch—no fever, not yet, thank God—and the pool of hope in my heart grew. “There’s no one here watching us, is there?” I murmured.
“Only you.” His eyes closed again, and his hand groped for mine. “Why?”
“You called me ‘Kitten.’”
His eyelids flickered open again, enough that I could see the smile tucked into the corners.
“I like to call you that in my head. My name for you and no one else’s.”
Something between a laugh and a sob bubbled up. “That laudanum’s addled you something fierce,” I said, trying to keep my tone light, and was rewarded when one side of his mouth turned up. I poured a cup of water for him and helped him drink, then pulled a chair close. “What do the doctors say?”
The drink roused him. He put out his hand again and drew my fingers to his mouth before he replied. “It’s a fracture and a bad cut but it’ll mend. I can come home in a few days, with crutches. You can wait on me. Hand and foot.”
I managed the laugh he wanted. “But what about the filth in the water?”
“No infection yet. When I got here, they soaked my leg in some carbolic solution that hurt like the devil.”
I swallowed, hoping the pain meant the medicine was strong enough to work its magic against the river’s poison.
“Tell me what happened,” he said.
“How much do you remember?”
He was silent a moment, thinking, and his voice wasn’t much above a whisper. “The tunnel. You and Art behind me. A gunshot. A doctor, but I don’t know where I was. I was half out of my mind with pain. Were you there?”
“In a different room, but yes.”
He looked at me, his worry piercing the laudanum fog. “Good lord, Kit, how bad was I? I wasn’t talking, was I?”
