The Beekeeper's Apprentice - Laurie R. King [152]
“A drink, please.”
“Certainly, Miss. Let me raise the bed for you.” The low voices had stopped, and as she cranked the handle my field of vision gradually dropped from the ceiling above the bed to include the bed itself and my visitors, rising from their chairs in the corner. The nursing sister held the glass for me, and I pulled methodically at the straw, ignoring the hurt of swallowing.
“More, Miss?”
“Not now, thank you, sister.”
“Right-o, ring if you need me. Ten minutes, gentlemen, and see you don’t tire her.”
“Uncle John, your moustache is almost back to normal.” (Dodder-ing old fool... )
“Hallo, dear Mary. You’re looking a sight better than you were three days ago. They’re good doctors here.”
“And Mr. Holmes. I am happy to greet you more civilly than the last time we met.” (Mycroft’s expression of jovial bonhomie seemed faintly menacing.)
“Please, Miss Russell, I hardly think that formality is necessary or even appropriate, what with being welcomed into your boudoir and all.” The fat face smiled down at me, and I felt so tired. What were they doing here?
“Brother Mycroft, then. And Holmes. You have had a rest since the morning, I think. You look not so strained.”
“I have. There is a vacant room next to yours, and I have made use of it. How are you feeling, Russell?”
“I am feeling as though a large piece of lead passed through me and took a considerable quantity of myself with it. How do the white-coats say I am?” (Why didn’t they go? Perhaps it is the painkillers, dulling my interest.)
Watson cleared his throat.
“The bullet passed through the back of your neck, missing the spinal column by—by enough. It did go through your collarbone and nick various blood vessels before leaving the front of your shoulder and continuing on, to lodge finally in Miss Donleavy’s heart. The sur-geons have pieced together the clavicle, though there is considerable damage to the muscles in that area. And,” his face prepared me for a feeble attempt at a joke to cheer the patient, “I fear you will never care to dress in anything other than high-necked clothing. Though I think you had already resigned yourself to that. Where on earth did you pick up all that scar tissue?”
“Watson, I think—” Holmes began.
“No, Holmes, it’s all right.” I was so utterly weary, and Watson was peering down into my face with what I supposed was loving concern, so I closed my eyes against the brightness. “It was an accident some years ago, Uncle John. Ask Holmes to tell you the story. I think I’ll sleep for a while now, if you don’t mind.”
They filed out, but I did not sleep. I lay and felt the fingers of my unresponsive right hand, and thought about the walls of Jerusalem, and what my mathematics tutor had taken from me.
was in that hospital for many days, and a degree of movement gradually returned to my arm and neck. I could not abide the thought of my aunt, and indeed after I was conscious I refused to have her in my room. After some discussion it was arranged that I go home to the spare room in Holmes’ cottage, to the great delight of Mrs. Hudson and the concern of the hospital authorities, who dis-liked the distance, the remoteness, and the poor road I should have to travel. I told Holmes I wished to go with him, and let him fight it out for me.
Once there I ate obediently, slept, sat in the sun with a book, and worked at restoring strength to my hand, but it was an emptiness. I did not dream, though often during the day I would find that I had been staring off into the distance unblinking for great chunks of time. When I had been in the cottage for two weeks I went to the laboratory and stood looking at the clean floor and the restored shelves. I touched the two bullet holes in the walls, and felt nothing but a