Naamah's Kiss - Jacqueline Carey [82]
I made a face. "Do they have nothing better to do than gossip?"
"No," Thierry said thoughtfully. "Not really."
"Moirin!" Raphael parted the throng and strode toward me, looking genuinely concerned. He saw the Dauphin, checked himself, and bowed. "Your highness, forgive me. I was worried about her."
"I'm fine," I said.
"Why shouldn't she be?" Thierry patted my hand. "Since I found her quite alone and unattended, I escorted Lady Moirin to the Hall of Portraits that she might behold her ancestors. My lord de Mereliot, I must thank you for introducing such a fascinating offshoot of the tree of House Courcel into our lives."
Raphael gave him a thunderous look, then turned his stormy gaze on me, setting the blood to pounding in my veins. "You're sure?"
"Yes!" I said irritably. "You were busy elsewhere."
A woman screamed.
There was a moment of milling confusion. Raphael's head went up like a hound on point, then whipped around, seeking the source of the scream. In the center of the hall, the gentleman of the elderly couple who had preceded us had sunk to his knees, one hand clutching at his doublet. It was his wife who had screamed.
"Your pardon!" Raphael shouted over his shoulder, pushing his way through the crowd.
I shook off Thierry and went after him.
Everyone had gathered to watch in appalled fascination. By the time I squeezed and elbowed my way through, Raphael was kneeling on the floor beside the old gentleman. He'd unbuttoned his doublet and was massaging the man's chest.
He looked up and saw me. "My physician's bag. It's in the carriage. Send Jean-Michel."
I nodded.
The curious onlookers didn't want to let me through. I swore at them, shoving blindly. And then there was an opening, and a pair of slender hands caught my upper arms with unexpected strength.
"What does he need?" Jehanne de la Courcel asked me in a steady tone.
"His bag," I stammered. "In the carriage."
She gave a brusque nod and released me, issuing a string of orders. Guards moved to obey. Forced backward, the crowd thinned. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jean-Michel pelting out of the hall.
"Moirin!" Raphael's voice rose in a roar.
"Aye!" I flung myself to my knees beside him, bruising myself against the marble floor.
"Help me," he said simply. "His heart is stricken. If it stops, he'll die. Lend me your energy."
The old man gasped for air, his face bluish.
"I don't—" I began.
Raphael's hand closed around my wrist. "Put your hands on mine. Do what you did for the plum tree."
"I'll try," I whispered.
The world shrank to a small circle. There was me, Raphael, and the old man. Raphael rubbed his hands together and said a prayer to Eisheth under his breath. He laid his hands on the old man's slack, pale chest, bowing his head and arranging his hands just so.
I put my hands on his.
I couldn't feel it, not the way I could feel plants. The thing that was wrong, the thing that needed to be fixed or coaxed and cozened. But Raphael could. I breathed in slow and deep. I couldn't summon the twilight and vanish from sight—not here and now with so many eyes watching. But I could still take that half-step into the next world and evoke its charms. That I could lend to Raphael.
I breathed out.
A rill of energy surged from me, leaving me drained—more drained than I'd ever been. Raphael closed his eyes, warmth pulsing from his hands.
The old man took a ragged gulp of air and sat bolt upright. "Elua!"
The crowd cheered.
Jean-Michel appeared with a satchel. Raphael grabbed it from him and rummaged for a small flask labeled in neat handwriting. "Keep still, Lord Luchese," he said briefly. "Moirin, support him from behind." I moved to obey. He uncorked the flask and set it to the man's lips. "It's a distillation of willow bark. It's going to be bitter."
The elderly Lord Luchese drank, grimacing at the taste. I peered over his shoulder, watching healthy color return to his face.
"Is he going to be