He nodded. “You’re right. I’m not.”
I looked away. I fought hard to remember the moment I learned he had stolen my fortune. It had felt akin to standing on the Philae sandbank, watching as my mother rowed away from me, leaving me behind, taking hundreds of artifacts with her. I had felt enraged and tricked and manipulated.
My mother had left me to my fate.
But Whit had saved mine.
Twice.
He had told me he loved me—but he’d said that to make me jump, surely. Another attempt to manipulate me. I didn’t understand him. Why risk his life for me—a woman who would divorce him? Who, for all he knew, hated him? All this time, I had known that he felt some measure of guilt for what he had done, but not enough to apologize. He had told me himself that he would do the same thing all over again.
However.
Now that he was bleeding, slowly dying in front of me, it was hard to be angry at him. Because somehow, I knew that if he could choose whether or not to save my life, he would jump in front of that bullet for me again.
And again and again and again.
He was being so inconveniently honorable.
I channeled all my fear and anger and frustration into rowing the damn boat.
I paced outside the hotel room, up and down the long corridor. The physician had been inside with Whit for several hours. Only the sound of quiet murmuring broke the silence, and the occasional guest who looked at me curiously, dressed as I was in my widow’s garb that was now dust and torn in places. Three times now, the staff had come by to offer me tea and a lunch of hummus and fresh-cut vegetables, but my stomach roiled at the sight of the food (though I did accept the tea).
Another hour passed with no word.
With every step I took, my imagination wrought turmoil in my mind. The blood on Whit’s shirt. Isadora racing up the stairs after me—and falling. The sight of Isadora’s slim pale hand, the only thing visible from the pile of rocks on top of her slight frame.
She was dead, and I knew that her father would not let me live after this.
CAPÍTULO VEINTIUNO
The door opened, and the physician walked out. He appeared calm and collected. His eyes were kind, and his clipped graying hair reminded me of marbled granite pillars. Two of his assistants followed, carrying bloody sheets.
I tried not to stare at the mess.
“Good evening, or is it afternoon?” the doctor asked, rubbing his tired eyes. “I am Dr. Neruzzos Bey.”
“How is he?” I asked, my throat tight. I could hardly speak.
The physician jerked his chin in the direction of the hotel room. “Are you related to this man?”
I shook my head, recalled a crucial piece of information, and corrected myself. “Yes, well, I’m his wife.”
“He’s as stable as I could make him,” he said. “The time spent on the boat and the jostling of the carriage did him no favors. But I managed to remove the shattered bullet. I believe I got all of it, but it’s hard to be sure. He has a fever, so I recommend cold compresses throughout the day and night. Try to give him water and make him as comfortable as you can. I’ll return tomorrow to check his progress.” He hesitated. “I’d prepare yourself. An abdominal gunshot wound is serious. Thankfully, there was no harm to his kidneys or appendix. I can’t say the same for a section of his intestines.”
Terror seized me. The whole time I had paced outside the hotel room, I reminded myself that Whit was strong, that he had survived battles and other wounds. I told myself that he would live. My hands shook violently.
“Shokran,” I murmured, my throat dry.
Dr. Neruzzos Bey nodded and brushed past. I stared at the closed door, my nerves shattered, worry pricking at my edges. I inhaled through my nose, trying to brace myself for the worst. After a moment, my heartbeat slowed to normal, and I straightened my shoulders as I opened the door and walked through.
Whit lay on the bed, his face turned toward me. A faint smile touched his lips. I walked three steps and dropped to my knees next to the bed. His eyes appeared sunken, and deep caverns had hollowed out his cheeks.
“How are you?” His voice was barely above a whisper, and I had to lean closer to hear him clearly. He looked at me wryly, as if he knew to suspect that his days were numbered.
“The doctor is incredibly competent and has given me a list of things to do to make you comfortable,” I said.
“That’s fine,” he said breathlessly. “But that doesn’t tell me howyouare.”
