The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [134]
A soft tap on the bathroom door, then Henning’s voice. ‘She’s gone.’
Stevie unlocked the door but kept it shut.
‘You might be interested to know,’ he said, the by-now familiar amusement dancing in his voice, ‘even without meeting you, she was able to suspect you were suffering from a schizophrenic withdrawal from people.’
Stevie really had no comeback in the face of science. She was starting to feel like an experiment.
‘However,’ Henning continued, ‘considering that you are on the run from Russian assassins, withdrawal would seem to be the sanest state to be in, wouldn’t you say?’
Stevie opened the door and poked her head out.
‘I like the way you think. Now, how about a sundowner?’
‘I’m not sure they have a minibar. This is a sanatorium, you know.’
A crestfallen Stevie emerged from the bathroom. ‘I suppose you’re right. But Doctor Meinetzhagen did say it was okay . . .’
From deep inside his herringbone overcoat Henning produced a flask. ‘For emergencies only. But I think a visit from the sanatorium psychologist counts.’
Stevie laughed and impulsively kissed Henning on the cheek, her hand on his chest. ‘I just adore you.’
He grabbed her delicate wrist and held her there.
Stevie’s pulse thundered in her ears. ‘Henning . . .’
They were standing too close—balancing on that finest line that separates friends from lovers. Stevie hesitated—moving even a millimetre forward was a commitment she wasn’t ready to make; but she couldn’t quite bring herself to step backwards either.
Didi’s phrase filled her head over and over, pushing out all other thoughts like a torrential stream: ‘in the arms of another’.
Stevie’s lips parted before the words were ready to be spoken.
‘We don’t do this, Henning.’ Her voice was barely a whisper. ‘This isn’t us . . .’
Neither of them moved.
Suddenly the memory of Joss flashed in Stevie’s mind, the gold python eyes, how close she had come to danger. She couldn’t kiss Henning just to forget Joss Carey.
She turned her head a fraction and broke the spell. Henning was worth more than that.
The floor began to swing slowly from side to side. Stevie realised her heart was pounding as if she had run up six flights of stairs; she could feel her pulse beating on her skin, her temples, her stomach and it made her feel queasy. Unsteadily, she reached out for the armchair.
Henning gripped her upper arm and lowered her gently into the chair. His other hand was on her wrist. ‘Your pulse is racing. Should I call a doctor?’
Stevie groaned. ‘No. I feel . . . like a feather in a gale—no, more like an egg in a blender. It’ll pass.’
‘Perhaps,’ Henning said, seeing Stevie’s hand reach for his flask, ‘the whisky could wait . . .’
The pale hand stopped. ‘Au contraire, Henning.’ Stevie gave a wan smile. ‘I think it will be just the thing.’ The hand completed its journey.
‘I’ll tell you a story about this place.’ Henning sat down on the chair next to her and took custody of the flask again. ‘It’s rather sad.’
‘Go on,’ said Stevie, feeling decidedly better as the fire water warmed her empty stomach. ‘I need a treat after my afternoon with Rosa Klebb and her pinching henchmen, to say nothing of being diagnosed as a social misfit. My dignity may never recover.’
‘See the castle there, on the other side of the gorge?’ Henning pointed through the window. The light was fading fast but the ruin could just be seen. ‘It was built in the Dark Ages, before Switzerland existed, when it was a cluster of cantons and principalities. In this castle there lived a prince. Everyone was always at war with everyone else and this particular castle was under siege by the army of a Teutonic king.
‘The prince and his men fought valiantly against the enemy but they were massively outnumbered