The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [76]
“At least we know his physical strength is not seriously impaired,” I remarked, picking myself up off the floor where Emerson’s flailing arm had flung me.
“It is the unnatural strength of mania,” declared Dr. Wallingford, rubbing his bruised shoulder.
“Nevertheless, I find it reassuring,” I said. “I have seen him this way before. It is my own fault, I ought to have known better than… Get hold of his feet, Cyrus, he is trying to get out of bed again!”
Anubis had prudently retired to the top of the dresser, where he squatted, watching with wide green eyes. In the brief lull that followed Emerson’s fit of agitation I became aware of a low rumbling sound. The cat was purring! Abdullah would have taken it for another sign of diabolical intelligence, but I felt a strange, irrational surge of renewed hope—as if the creature’s purr were a good omen rather than the reverse.
I needed all the encouragement I could find during the dreadful hours that followed, but finally, after midnight on the third night, I dared to believe the worst was over. At last Emerson lay still. The rest of us sat round the bed, nursing our bruises and catching our breath. My eyes blurred; I was giddy and light-headed from lack of sleep. The scene was unreal, like a two-dimensional photograph of some past event—the smoky lamplight casting its shadows over the strained faces of the watchers and the emaciated features of the sick man, the silence unbroken except for the rustle of leaves outside the open window and Emerson’s slow, regular breathing.
My senses did not dare to register that sign at first. When I rose and tiptoed to the bed, Dr. Wallingford came with me. His examination was brief. When he straightened, his tired face wore a smile.
“It is sleep—sound, natural sleep. Get some rest now, Mrs. Emerson. He will want to see you smiling and well when he wakes in the morning.”
I would have resisted, but I could not; Cyrus had to half-carry me into the adjoining dressing room, where a cot had been placed for me. The unconscious mind—in which I firmly believe, despite its questionable status—knew I could now abandon my vigil, and I slept like the dead for six hours. Waking, filled with energy, I bounded from bed and rushed to the next room.
At least such was my intention. I was brought to a sudden stop by an apparition that appeared before me—shockingly pale, dreadfully disheveled, wild-eyed and unkempt. It was several seconds before I recognized my own image, reflected in the mirror over the dressing table.
A quick glance into the adjoining chamber assured me that Emerson still slept and that the good doctor, eyeglasses askew and cravat loosened, dozed in the chair next to the bed. Hastily I set about making a few essential repairs, smoothing my hair, pinching color into my cheeks, assuming my most elaborately ruffled and beribboned dressing gown. My hands shook; I was as tremulous as a young girl preparing for an assignation with her lover.
Sounds from the next room brought me flying to the door, for I recognized the querulous grunts and groans with which Emerson was wont to greet the day. If he was not himself again, he was producing a good imitation.
Cyrus, who must have been listening outside the door, entered when I did. Dr. Wallingford waved us back. Leaning over the bed, he said, “Do you know who you are?”
He was weary, poor fellow, or no doubt he would have found more felicitous phraseology. Emerson stared at him. “What a damned fool question,” he replied. “Of course I know who I am. More to the point, sir, who the devil are you?”
“Please, Professor,” Wallingford exclaimed. “Your language! There is a lady present.”
Emerson’s eyes swept the room in a slow survey and came to rest on me where I stood with hands clasped to my breast in order to still the telltale flutter of the ruffles that betrayed my wildly beating heart. “If she doesn’t care for my language she can leave the room. I did not invite her.”
Cyrus could contain himself no longer. “You blamed