“It bit me!”
“You’re wearing gloves,” he said gruffly. “I doubt it penetrated.”
“It bit me hard.”
“Let’s take a look, then.” He stilled her flapping hand and tugged at the glove, revealing long, tapered fingers. One of which bore teeth marks and a smearing of bright red blood. “Well, shit.”
“I told you!”
His head whipped up at the hysterical note in her voice. “It’s just a nip.”
“You’re only saying that because it isn’t your hand.” Her eyes widened. “Rabies.”
“None of that,” he said sternly. “It would be exceedingly rare for that ball of fluff to carry rabies.”
“I’m very unlucky.” She tugged her hand free and stared at the drop of blood welling on her fingertip. “This could be my undoing.”
“Olive.”
“I’m thirsty.” She smacked her lips. “That’s a good sign, isn’t it? I?—”
“Olive!”
Her gaze snapped to his, wild and unguarded, and he saw the battle play out—a valiant effort to shove down whatever panicked thought fought to escape.
“I—” She swallowed hard, her throat bobbing. “I—” Another sharp gulp, her expression twisting like she’d tasted a spoonful of cod liver oil. A flicker of raw discomfort crossed her face, like the words were physically clawing their way up, but she was determined to choke them down.
And Olive, he had come to realize, was far too skilled at silencing herself. He sighed.
“Whatever it is, just say it before you combust.”
The invitation was barely out before she unleashed a torrent of words in one long breath, the words running over each other so quickly he could barely discern one from the other.
“I have a performance tonight. If I play, will it become infected? How bad must it be before they need to amputate? Is lopping off a diseased finger terribly expensive? Can I make a living as a nine-fingered pianist? Oh, Emil, I’m in no mood to join the carnival!”
He palmed her cheeks in his hands, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. That was more than he ever could have expected.
“Breathe, you madwoman.” She guzzled in air. “We’ll visit the doctor—my treat—and get you cleaned. ” She nodded fervently. “And you’ll stop imagining the worst.” She looked doubtful. “At least try.” He released her cheeks, then tucked her uninjured hand into the crook of his arm. “Now. Are you ready to face your audience?”
“What audience?”
He tilted his head toward the half dozen library patrons that had been attracted to the hubbub like bees to honey. She inhaled sharply and clutched his forearm in a death grip.
“There’s no need to panic. I won’t leave you.” The declaration was unplanned. Unsolicited, perhaps even unwanted. “At least,” he added in a rush, “not until we’ve had a doctor cure you of unspeakable diseases.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, and it was he who avoided eye contact this time.
“Are you all right, miss?” an old woman with a gray halo of hair asked.
“Was it a rat?” a chubby-cheeked boy at her side asked eagerly.
“Only a little mouse,” Emil replied. “Completely harmless.”
“It had better be,” Olive muttered.
“Is this yours?” A man plucked a paper from the floor and held it aloft.
“It is, thank you.” Smoothly, Emil took the paper, but inwardly, he was appalled. Impossible to believe he’d been about to walk out of the library sans the clue that had brought them there in the first place. “If you’ll excuse us, I must escort the lady to the nearest doctor.”
