“What hasyouso occupied this afternoon?” Crossing to perch on the arm of his chair, Amelia read aloud the title of the book in his lap. “The Commentaries on the Laws of England.” She straightened, an arch to one brow. “Am I to hope that in the near future there will be a Balfour called to the bar?”
A bitter laugh rumbled in his throat. Since childhood, he’d dreamed of donning a black robe and a wig, fighting for right in a world gone wrong. But even if Peckwood’s operation proved successful, it would still be years before he could become a barrister. Oh, he knew enough of the theory of law, and was well versed in precedents and principles, but what did he know of the legal society as a whole? Of the powerful men and politics that inhabited the halls of justice? Would he, a hermit who’d been shut away from civilization, be accepted by such men?
He ran his fingers over the book’s cover. “That remains to be seen, Sister.”
“It shall be.” She squeezed his shoulder. “You will be the best lawyer London has ever known, and so I leave you to your studies.”
He caught her hand before she pulled away. “You’re like her, you know. Leastwise what I imagine her to be.”
Tiny creases marred her brow. “Who?”
He gazed up at the family portrait hanging above the mantel, painted before his birth. A raven-haired woman beamed at the young girl on her lap. A man with an iron-clad stare towered over them both. Even before his ogre of a son had been born, Grafton Balfour hadn’t smiled, but that did nothing to change the beautiful demeanor of the woman, and Colin felt sure she’d have loved her misshapen child despite his deformities.
He sighed. “I never knew our mother, but I suspect she would’ve encouraged me much as you do.”
“Oh, Colin.” Sorrow thickened Amelia’s voice. “Though I was only seven when she passed, I do remember her as a radiant beacon that warmed everyone in her path. She’d have been proud of you, as am I. But there is one thing you are very wrong about.”
He snapped his gaze back to her. “What is that?”
“It is you who are like her in every way, not I.”
She turned and vanished out the door, and just as well. She’d rendered him quite speechless. And he surely didn’t feel like reading anymore.
Rising, he reshelved his book and strode from the library. A short lie-down before dinner might relieve the headache that’d crawled unbidden from its corner. The stairs groaned beneath his weight as he trudged up to his room. Might even mundane sounds such as this be forever changed once his body shrank—as Peckwood had assured him it would?
He reached for the knob on his bedroom door, then paused as lightning flashed at his back. Eerie light cast a shadow of his grisly silhouette against the door. Thunder bellowed, rattling the panes of the stairwell window while raindrops plastered the glass like grapeshot. Just a storm. Nothing unusual, especially for a summer day. So why the unease prickling down his backbone?
He wheeled about and scanned the length of the darkened corridor leading to Amelia’s room. Another bolt of lightning strobed, reaching in through the window at the end of the passage. Lighting the world in electric white.
And outlining the shape of a child.
The blink of an eye. The beat of a heart. Astounding how fast things could change. One minute, the heavens rent and poured down fury. The next, late afternoon sunshine broke through the clouds like the charge of a light brigade through enemy lines.
Pushing away from the desk, Graham strode to the window. Fat raindrops yet clung to the glass as he threw open the frame, ushering in the fresh scent of a world washed clean. For one glorious moment, he breathed in the promise of a beautiful night. When he finished that pile of paperwork on his desk, another good, long walk would be just the thing.
The front door crashed open, followed by a man’s ragged shout. “Doctor! Help!”
So much for a long walk.
He wheeled about, striding from the small office into the reception room, where three dockhands hoisted a body between them, two at the head, one at the feet. Blood dripped in a steady stream onto the floor.
“In here, men.” Graham threw open the surgery door, allowing them passage. The smell of sweat, tar, and soured ale followed.
So much for fresh air too.
He tagged after them. “What happened?”
After a grunt and a heave, the men deposited the body onto the examination table, and the eldest of the trio lifted a face full of wiry whiskers towards him. “Chain broke, droppin’ a crate o’ lampblack and catchin’ ol’ Hobbs unawares.” He dipped his head at the broken fellow on the table. “Crushed him, it did. Can ye save him?”
Two of the men backed away as Graham stepped up to the table. In a trice, he scanned the injured dockhand from head to toe. A bone protruded from the man’s left arm, skin ripped open, muscle partially flayed. But even more worrisome was the blood pooling out of his gut on the same side. As a naval surgeon, Graham had seen as much and worse, but time was of the essence, and there was no way he could do this alone.
He met the elder man’s gaze. “With a little help, I think your man will be saved.” Striding to the door, he addressed the other two. “Light the lamps, men, then wait outside, if you please.”
“We be lightin’ yer lamps and be glad for it, but we not be stayin.’ Broken chain and now one man down, we’ve a sight o’ work ahead of us a’fore it gets dark.”
Graham paused, rolling up his sleeves. “I understand. I shall send word when your friend here is on the mend.”
He dashed down the corridor, surprised to see Peckwood already clearing the last stair. “I was just about to call you, Doctor.”
