The Silenced Tale, стр. 55
“I think there’s a bit more to it than that.”
I knuckle my forehead. “Why, why have I been neglectful in teaching you to defend yourself with a sword? Foolish man.”
“Hey,” Pip says. “No more of that. And I’m not exactly defenseless. It’s not like my extra hours at the gym have been spent at ballet booty camp.” She makes a fist and bats my shoulder hard enough to get her point across.
“Splendid, splendid woman,” I say, and this time, I am the one initiating the kiss.
“And don’t forget, we may not be able to ward the house, but I don’t think there’s ever been a home security system as thorough as ours in the history of home security systems.”
“And while I have been warding the house, you’ve been preparing for when my work fails,” I point out.
“If, not when,” Pip says against my mouth, smirking. “I’ve been kidnapped twice now. That was enough. I’m determined that, next time, I’ll hold my own. I refuse to be a damsel in distress.”
“There will be no next time,” I proclaim grimly.
Pip’s smirk grows tremulous. “Trilogies,” she reminds me.
“I will book my ticket directly,” I say. “I just . . . excuse me for a moment?”
Pip nods, wearing a look on her face like she already knows what I’m about to do, as I head for the front door. Shoes on, I step out into the chill morning, and because I am a paranoid bastard, I take a long, lingering walk around my house, searching for . . . I don’t know what. Something. Anything. Clues. Proof that I would not be mad to leave my daughter and wife alone, undefended save for what Pip can do with her own fists and feet, while I scurry off to the side of a man who, a year ago, I didn’t even particularly like.
I peer at every passerby, glance into every shrub, check every locked gate. Nothing.
Nothing.
It should be a relief.
Instead, I wish I had found something. Some clue. Something to keep me here, by their side. Some reason to . . . but no. This is cowardice. Elgar needs help. Needs me.
I must go. And Pip cannot come.
Elgar
When Elgar next opens his eyes, it’s in a pastel-colored room with a white, halo-like curtain around his bed. His bed? Yes, he’s in a bed. But a bed that is hard, and narrow, and not his bed. The air smells of disinfectant, and the sheets are slightly scratchy. The bit of wall he can see over the steel rail is pale peach, and the overhead light is a harsh fluorescent.
His neck and head ache, and his right forearm burns. His mouth tastes like stale cotton, and he wants to scrub the grit out of his eyes, but as soon as he tries to move, every muscle in his body screams. He groans out loud. The curtain hisses open, and a woman in green scrubs—a nurse, his brain tells him, but not without another sharp ache—appears in the gap.
“Hello, Mr. Reed. Good morning.” Elgar tries to answer, and she shushes him and holds a cup of water with a bendy straw to his lips. She tuts at him after a few sips and takes it away, the tease. “Now, try again.”
“Morning?” he rasps. “How?”
“You were unconscious when they brought you in, Mr. Reed, and with the mild edema, they decided it would be best if you stayed asleep while you were treated. They took you off the anti-inflammatory meds yesterday evening.”
“Edema? Unconscious?”
The nurse frowns, looks down at his chart, and then comes back up to the head of the bed. “Mr. Reed, do you know where you are?”
“Hospital?” he guesses.
“Do you know how you got here?”
“Um,” Elgar says, casting his mind back to recent events. “Airport, then the car, then . . . Juan!”
He struggles to sit up, ignoring the nausea the motion causes, the way his neck and head throb and seize. But the nurse pushes him back down, makes soothing noises. “Don’t move yet, Mr. Reed. We haven’t been able to prescribe you any muscle relaxants, not with the other meds in your system. Just relax, don’t make it worse.”
“Juan?” he asks again, voice trembling, dreading the answer.
Before the nurse can say anything, a soft voice says from the other side of the curtain: “Here, boss.”
Relief is like a gut-punch, and Elgar can’t help the groan that escapes him.
The nurse pushes the curtain around his bed all the way open, and Elgar is able to see that he’s in a small hospital room with a bright window, a private washroom, and two single beds. Sitting up with a rueful smile on a face that is half bruise is Juan. He tries to grin at Elgar, but ends up grimacing instead, touching the bandage over his nose gingerly with his free hand. His other arm is one long, shoulder-to-knuckles cast.
“Jesus, Juan,” Elgar breathes, trying to look without moving his head. He ends up straining his eyes until his vision sparks.
“Don’t move,” the nurse says. “Just lie still. I’m going to go get you a refill on your IV and some nice, shiny new painkillers, Mr. Reed.” She bustles out, and Elgar doesn’t even have the heart to check out her ass as she goes.
“Looks worse than it is,” Juan lies cheerily. “Gonna get the doc to set my nose nice, get rid of that stupid bump I hate. Gil will have to kiss me if I have a George Clooney nose, right?”
“Right,” Elgar says, eyes burning with relief and sorrow. “Juan, I’m so sorry. If you weren’t my PA—”
“No, boss,” Juan says. “This isn’t on you, and you’re not allowed to make it on you. I’ve had plenty of time to think about it. It’s all him.”
“Maybe,” Elgar allows. But if I hadn’t created him .