“I know, I’m clumsy,” I say, in my best sad baby voice.
Hedeon bites the edge of his lower lip, not quite believing me.
I’ve got a few things I’d like to ask him in return, but now’s not the time for sleuthing, or for antagonizing him. I really do need him to carry me along. Hedeon is nowhere near as big as his adopted brother, but he’s still 6’1 and strong. I kinda want to ask him to throw me over his shoulder because, like Leo said, I want to conserve my strength. For different reasons than the Quartum Bellum.
“Guess you’ll miss watching the challenge,” Hedeon says.
“I’ll support you in spirit from here,” I say, nodding toward the long, low building of the infirmary.
“You want me to come in?” Hedeon asks.
“No,” I say. “Thank you, though. For the napkin and the arm.”
I let go of his warm, substantial bicep.
Hedeon squints down at me like he wants to say something else. Instead, he jerks his head in a surly you’re welcome, and heads back toward the dining hall.
Dr. Cross opens the door after one knock.
“The challenge hasn’t even started yet!” He squawks in outrage. “How are you injured already?”
“I cut myself at breakfast,” I say, pulling back the blood-soaked napkin to show him the damage.
“Cut yourself with what? A saber?” He howls.
“The knives are sharp.”
“And the students are idiots, apparently.”
“That can’t be a surprise to you,” I say, giving him a disarming smile. “How long have you worked here?”
“Since before you were born, and probably your parents, too,” Dr. Cross says, rolling his eyes behind his thick glasses. “Well, it’s not so bad. I can stitch you up. You might have a scar, but better on your arm than on your face.”
He washes his hands at the steel sink, then begins to bustle around, gathering up his supplies.
“Sit on the bed before you fall over,” he barks.
“I am a little dizzy,” I admit. “I didn’t get a chance to eat my breakfast. You don’t think I could have some tea, maybe?”
“This isn’t the Four Seasons!” Dr. Cross barks. But a moment later he softens, saying, “I’ll start the tea and you can drink it once I’ve stitched you up. Keep pressure on the wound while I’m gone.”
He heads back to his apartment to fetch the kettle and cups. I hear him banging around in his little kitchen, and I take the opportunity to retrieve a pair of capsules from my pocket. I made them myself, with a carefully measured dose. One should do it, but I plan to use both just to be sure.
Dr. Cross returns several minutes later bearing a teapot and two mugs. The mugs are chipped and unmatching, but the tea already smells lovely.
“I don’t have cream,” he says, gruffly.
“I like it plain,” I say.
“Let it steep a minute,” he barks, though I hadn’t tried to touch it.
Dr. Cross fills a syringe with lidocaine and injects my arm in several places. The whole arm is so hot and throbbing that I barely feel the needle poking at the edges of the wounded flesh.
“We’ll give that a minute to settle in,” he says. “You can pour the tea now.”
I lift the pot with my uninjured arm, and pour two careful mug-fulls.
“Forgot the sugar,” Dr. Cross grouses, heading back to his kitchen.
I drop both capsules into his mug. The clear coating instantly dissolves in the hot tea, leaving only a fine white powder at the bottom of the mug that he shouldn’t notice unless he looks carefully. I desperately hope I’ve dosed it right—I really don’t want to hurt the doctor.
I lift the other mug, sipping the tea even though it’s scalding.
“It’s so good!” I say to Dr. Cross as he returns.
“You don’t want sugar? Oh that’s right, you said plain. Healthier for you, but I never quite got rid of my sweet tooth.”
He dumps three lumps into his tea and stirs without noticing anything amiss.
“Ah!” He says, after a satisfied slurp. “Let’s get to it, then.”
He sets down his mug so he can pick up his needle and thread. I resolutely turn my face toward the window. I don’t want to watch. Dr. Cross works swiftly, in spite of his arthritis-ridden hands. When he’s done, the line of stitches down my arm is neater than the jagged wound deserved.
“There!” He says, with satisfaction. “I’ll put a bandage on it, too. Keep the wound clean. Come back for fresh wrapping when you need it. The stitches will dissolve on their own in a few weeks. Don’t pick at it, whatever you do.”
“Can I rest a little longer?” I ask him. “I’m still dizzy.”
He glances at the clock. “If you like. You’ll miss the challenge, but that may be for the best. It’s damn hot today. No good sitting out in the sun.”
He tidies up swiftly and efficiently, then washes his hands once more. As he turns to leave, I say, “Dr. Cross! You forgot your tea!”
“So I did,” he says, lifting the mug and taking another swig. “Still warm.”
Thank god for that.
He sits down on the bed next to mine to continue drinking. He slurps with every sip, but it’s not an uncouth sound. In fact, it’s strangely comforting.
“What’s your family name?” he demands, squinting at me through the inch-thick lenses of his glasses.
“Romero,” I tell him.
He makes a dismissive sound. “Never heard of it. I barely know any of the families anymore.”
“Is your family mafia?” I ask him.
“My mother was an Umbra,” he says, proudly. When he perceives that I don’t know what that means, he adds, impatiently, “They were a founding family, girl, good god, what are they teaching you out there?”
I’m relieved to see that he finished his tea. Even more relieved to see that his blinks are becoming longer and slower.
“I’m getting too old for this,” he says morosely, gazing at the washed and sterilized instruments he has yet to put away.
“Why don’t you rest and I’ll put those in the cabinet?” I offer.
“Well . . . go on, then,” he says, leaning back against the pillow with his fingers interlaced over his chest. “I may as well rest a moment. There’s sure to be another injury or two before the day is done.”
He closes his eyes, his breath already slowing.
Quietly, I unlatch the glass-fronted cabinet and put the instruments back in their carefully-labeled places.
I’m trying to move silently, trying not even to breathe.
Soon Dr. Cross’s mouth hangs open and long snores come rasping out.
I wait for five, then ten agonizing minutes. I have to be sure he’s deeply asleep before I leave.
The dose I gave him should knock him out for hours.
Some parts of this plan are well-organized, but others rely on chance. It was dumb luck that I was the only person to require Dr. Cross’ services this morning, and I’d like to keep it that way. The Quartum Bellum is the complicating factor. It’s a rare challenge that doesn’t result in at least a few injuries.
I need to leave and return as quickly as possible.