Josie cries out and Peter shouts at the men to let me go and Guthram only picks at invisible lint from his cuff. “Saxon Priest, you’re under arrest for the murder of William Bootham.”
For the first time since I spotted Isla comatose on the floor, something other than fear roots itself in my veins. Anger. Retaliation. “You fucking bastard,” I growl, spitting at his feet. “You know that I didn’t kill him.”
Tsking his disapproval, Guthram only cups my shoulder and brings his mouth to my ear. “Don’t insult an officer of the law, Godwin.” He steps back, then motions toward his men. “Come on, lads. Time to pack him up and bring him to the station—and don’t be afraid to rough him up a little. I daresay he might even enjoy it.”
44
Isla
A breeze settles over my skin.
Cool. Damp. Like wind before a heavy summer rain, when the sky threatens with ominous clouds but the sun still manages to peek through.
Too cold.
It’s much too cold.
I lift my arm to push whatever it is away but don’t get very far. A moan of protest stings my throat, just as I hear, “Miss Quinn, no. Don’t pull at that.”
I pull anyway, hoping to escape the bite of ice.
“A stubborn one, aren’t you,” remarks that same voice again, and this time, my prayers are answered. Almost immediately I sense a respite when the damp breeze disappears and I’m no longer squirming.
Where am I squirming?
Flexing my fingers, I feel softness beneath me. A blanket, maybe. Yes. A blanket. It sits heavy across my feet when I wriggle my toes. Am I in bed? If I am, I’ve been here for ages, it seems. My back is sore, the muscles tight on either side of my spine.
“Miss Quinn, please stop moving or we’ll have to sedate you again.”
Sedate?
Absolutely not.
“No.”
That croak, is that my voice? I swallow. So parched. Why am I so parched? The same as I was in that cell. Hungry and thirsty and angry at Saxon, even as I secretly begged for him to release me, to love me.
“You’ve a fever, girl.” Paper touches my lips, the rim curved. Water. It slips against the seam of my lips before I remember to open, to swallow, to open my eyes. A fuzzy figure comes into focus before me. Gray, curly hair. A nurse’s cap. Blue scrubs that hug her curvy frame. She pulls the cup away from my mouth, setting it down somewhere off to my right. “We have you on IV, for your liquids. But I suppose there’s nothing like fresh water.”
There are tranquil photographs on the walls: beaches and castles and dense woods. But nothing feels tranquil within me. “W-what happened?”
Soft brown eyes look down at me in pity. “You were shot, Miss Quinn.”
Shot?
As if sensing my confusion, the nurse pats the back of my hand, careful to miss all of the tubes that seem to triple in number each time I look at them. “A little scare is all. You lost quite a lot of blood. And your lung—well, I suppose it’s a good thing you arrived when you did. Thank God for small miracles, I say.”
I feel as though I’ve died.
Perhaps I’m still dead and this is all a dream.
“Who—”
“Now, I think that’s enough questions for now, wouldn’t you say?” She leans forward, rummaging around with something outside of my periphery. “Perhaps a few more hours of sleep ought to do you some good.”
“No,” I whisper, trying to move my arms but, dear God, the pain that shoots through my chest is unimaginable. “No, please . . .”
“Sweet dreams, Miss Quinn,” the nurse says kindly.
Those words. I know those words. They spark a memory. A memory I should remember—something dark and sinister and damning.
But then there’s no more discomfort. I slip away on the breeze, cool and calming.
“Is she awake?”
“You told us she’d be awake by now!”
“Mr. and Miss Quinn, while I’m sure you’re desperate to see your sister, she’s healing.”
“Dr. Longstrom, if you value your life worth a damn, you’ll let us at least see her.”
“Lad, threatening me is not going to get you far. Now, please, go and sit down.”
With every ounce of strength that I can summon, I reach over and smack the nurse’s bell. Although it’s more like a tap. A weakened, feeble tap that barely emits a peep. I try again. Better, but not great. Again. There . . . there—
The door props open as I suck in fistfuls of air into my lungs. There’s a flurry of blue, of orange doused in red, and then the foot of the bed is crowded by Peter and Josie. They stare at me with tear-stained, anguished faces.
“Mr. and Miss Quinn,” starts the doctor, stiffly.
“Let them stay.” I fist the bed cover in one hand, grounding myself. “Please.”
I hear his disgruntled cough. Then, “Ten minutes.”
“Twenty,” Peter returns sharply, never taking his eyes off me, “and we won’t make a fuss about leaving.”
“Twenty and not a minute more, boy.”
The door clicks shut a moment later, and Josie comes around to my right side. Dragging a chair close, she sits and reaches for my hand but seems to think better of it when she spies all the IVs running into my veins.
“You almost left me,” she says quietly, a small hitch in her words.
“Not by choice,” Peter butts in, leaning against the footboard. “She was shot, Jos. We’ve been over this.”
Josie’s blue eyes dart to our brother. “We need to tell her.”
He shakes his head. “No. Not right now.”
“Peter, we can’t not.”
“I just said, not right now. Later, when she’s feeling better.”
“I feel fine,” I interject, trying to draw myself upward on the bed. But the tightening in my chest—the wound that nearly killed me—keeps me horizontal but for the slight tilt in the mattress. I’ve gathered bits and pieces of what happened at The Bell & Hand each time I’ve awoken. Jack coming after me with the gun, him calling me little bird. I should have realized it then, in that moment. Ian Coney had said the same thing to me at The Octagon. Both times I’d been too determined not to die that I hadn’t it given much thought. “Did they get him?” I ask, flicking my attention between my brother and sister. “Please tell me they got him.”
Josie stares at me, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. “They did,” she says. And then, louder, “They did! They put handcuffs on him, Isla. Said that he killed the priest!”
A dead priest. A dead bitch.
Self-righteous anger, both for myself and for Father Bootham, has me edging out, “Good. He bloody deserves everything that’s coming to him.”
Josie blinks.
Peter clears his throat. “I thought we were on Saxon’s side?”
Everything in me goes still. “What? I don’t understand. Saxon—”
“Oh, hell.” Peter drops onto the corner of the bed, near my feet. “Oh, hell, you don’t remember.”
“Dr. Longstrom said I passed out from the blood loss. What don’t I remember?” I feel the telltale swell of worry rise within me. “Peter, what don’t I remember?”