“Could be worse,” I say, which is perfectly true. It really could be worse. “Did you find me?”
He nods, before he says, “I was in a small search party. My father and his retainers, Bobby, and Orgre Bonecleaver. We had a few words with the idiot who shot you, who kindly helped with the search afterward.” He then frowns. “Still undecided if I should execute him or not.”
As much as I would like immediate revenge for the person who shot me, I decide to leave my opinion out of it. Let the people decide whether or not it merits punishing. Though, I think uncomfortably, I was wearing my colors.
Probably not the best idea in a place of enemies. I wanted to bring my original clothes, my identity with me, but I most likely would not have been shot at if I wore my husband’s colors instead. I’m a terrible escapee. I should have been gunned down many times over by Claymore hostility. “Thank you for finding me,” I say. “I was… not smart. Not thinking clearly. Or I would never have worn Hartson colors.”
My husband grimaces in agreement. “We know about Paul.”
I nod, not too surprised. Paul obviously wasn't dead from what I did to him. “He tried. He – I hit him. I escaped.”
“It’s okay. I know. I'm just glad you’re okay. The good doctor here seems to think you’ll make a full recovery, barring any concussion or trauma, so I hear. Can't say the same for Paul.” His expression turns almost feral.
This seems to remind the doctor to check up on me, and she does so with enthusiasm, shining a light into my eye, asking me to count, and being satisfied with my mental cognition. It’s nice to have attention to make sure I’m well, rather than to have someone spit out something rude, so I take it with a smile.
“I’ve spoken again to the house servants,” Desmond says. The doctor hasn’t made a move to leave the room, and neither of us feel inclined to chase her out, it seems. “My father’s going to weigh in his opinion, too. He doesn’t want to fire Ethel as she has been loyal to us. But he will give her the kind of warning that should make her stand up and take notice. We don’t know if she was working on Rayse’s instructions or not, but we’ll find that out soon, I’m sure. Rayse claims he wasn't controlling her, but he would say that. So we're being careful.”
I listen grimly, and nod. I’m fully aware that people don’t want to do favors for a Hartson, and know I can’t ask for much more than this. If a lot of people get fired or punished at once, it will spread yet more negative rumors to people so determined to find me sinful for something. There is something else in his expression, though. Something he’s not saying, and perhaps doesn’t want to say in front of the doctor.
But I’m curious, anyway. “There’s something on your mind, Desmond. I can see it.”
He glances once to the doctor, before leaning in close, and saying, “I was so afraid I had lost you. When I saw you lying there – I honestly thought you were dead.” He smiles, though it doesn’t match his mood and tone. Something in his eyes makes me think he’s struggling not to cry. “I don’t want to lose you, Pearl.”
A warmth infuses my skin at those words. It cuts down into me, radiating out in a pleasant wave. Did he really just say that? Did I really just hear that? My brain hardly dares to believe the words. That someone would say this to me of all people.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t end there by happy circumstance.” I wince from what I can remember. “But I’m sorry I ran. A part of me wanted to come back, but another part wanted to go on.”
“I understand.” Desmond closes his eyes and lets out a sigh. “We will do our best to quell the unrest within our household. Though I don’t feel as though my brother will be the easiest person to reason with. He doesn’t like you much.”
“Oh wow, I never would have guessed without you telling me. Thanks for that observation.”
“Happy to help.” He sits there a moment longer, just staring, and a well of questions continue to bubble and burst within me. The biggest, most concerning one, I tuck back for later. Not in front of the doctor.
“Are we safe from the Graves? Or...” I swallow. “Or is it too late?”
“We’re safe. For now, anyway. Morgan and Danny won’t advise the war, but they do warn us that we are stretching incredulity a little. And if another almost accident happens again, they will figure it to be too dangerous for you to be here.”
“That sounds like something your brother would be happy to conjure up, doesn’t it?”
“Perhaps.” He appears disturbed by the thought, as if he’d never considered it before. He should have. A fresh wave of exhaustion knocks out some of my concentration, and I simply reach out for his hand. Together we are stronger. And I promise him not to leave like that again, and especially not wearing my own colors in Claymore land. Seems I’m just great at making terrible decisions. About the only good one I’ve made is choosing to marry Desmond to prevent a war. Trying to stop our two families constantly murdering one another, constantly causing pain and hate and suffering.
Though my actions and Desmond’s may not be enough. They may not be what will save us. Maybe we’ll just plunge into this disaster anyway, and there’s nothing we can actually do.
Nothing at all.
“Get better, soon,” Desmond says, hesitating on the words. As if he wanted to say something else, but can’t quite bring himself to do it. “And please take care.”
I promise him that I will. But I feel like a liar when I say them.
I have to remain in bed, recovering, but I don't want to be here. Don't particularly want to be injured, either, but I can't have everything.
The Graves guards are positioned outside the hospital wing, and they keep flicking concerned or moody glances my way. Danny has already confessed he feels like he's failed his duties, and Morgan keeps talking about how much he wants to gut Paul and the person who shot me. When I asked them why they didn't report, since this does seem like an incident to report, Morgan had looked nervous, before admitting that they hoped the Graves posturing and threat of massacre would be enough.
But if the worst came to the worse, then they would make good upon their threat. He was to use his discretion on the matter, and from his opinion, the Claymores were making leaps and bounds towards better relations. He thought Desmond truly cared for me, and could help foster healthier relations.
In short, he didn't want the war almost as much as we did.
I suspected as much. It would be devastating for three clans to smash together in war. It might even destroy those who remained after as a nation, opening us up to bandit attacks, collapsing what little economy we did have.
I manage to sleep at some point, but my dreams are punctuated by nightmares. By seeing my death over and over, and Paul's leering face, as it transforms from kind and friendly to the evil lurking within. To think I never saw it in him. To think I was stupid enough, foolish enough to let myself get locked in a room with him while he tried to ply me with drink and get me vulnerable. Though care should have been taken, I didn't want to believe it. I didn't want the one guy to show me such kindness to also be a lie.
The thoughts keep spilling, and I keep waking, often out of the pull of something awful. It's only when I forcibly lie there, eyes shut, sailing my thoughts to calmer waters, that I'm able to have a much better time. Especially when I focus on the fact that Desmond cares. He was worried sick, and searched for me. He brought me back from the brink of death.