“I felt my heart sink within me.”
Out of breath and short on time—a pox on the traffic blocking Leonard Lane!—Graham blasted into the waiting room of Peckwood’s offices. Heart wild, he tore towards the surgery door that gaped open.
Wide open.
Just past the threshold, he stumbled to a stop. Were his lungs not heaving for air, he’d whoop a holler of relief. No woozy giant lay atop the operating table. No journalists or cart of green silk bladders stood at the ready. Peckwood’s apron hung limp on its hook and the floor showed no sign of blood spatter from opening a human skull. Thank God! It appeared that for once, Mr. Peckwood had laid aside his need for prestige and postponed Colin’s surgery.
But that didn’t quench the angry ember burning in his chest. He still needed to get to the bottom of the bootless errand he’d been sent on. He’d mulled on it all the way from the dockyards. Either it had been a ploy to perform the surgery with no further interference by him—which clearly wasn’t the case since the operation had not taken place. Or else by some fluke, Peckwood had actually erred when naming the ship and the regulator was yet to be retrieved. If that was the truth of it, then fine, but there was still the matter of being dismissed so casually. He’d not stand for it. Not at the beginning of a procedure and definitely not in front of journalists, whose presence he still disapproved of.
With a last deep breath, he exited the room, intent on seeking out Peckwood, even if his search meant breaking the man’s staunch rule of never invading his privacy. He pulled off his hat and shrugged out of his coat as he stalked down the corridor, then paused and cocked his head.
A haunting melody drifted through the recovery room door. Female. Lovely. Frowning, he tossed his wet hat and coat on a side table. Surely Amelia had taken part in the rescheduling of her brother’s surgery and gone home with him. But if so, then why the lilting hum of her voice?
He rapped an obligatory knock then shoved open the door. “Miss Balfour?”
The farther he strode into the room, the more his heart sank, until he was thoroughly gutted. Ahead, Amelia’s body draped half on and half off the bed he’d prepared for her brother, her cheek sharing Colin’s pillow, her fingers entwined with his. Colin’s head was swathed in white bandages, a deep stain of blood violating the fabric near the frontal eminence of his skull.
Peckwood had performed the surgery.
Without him.
Graham’s hands curled into tight fists. Sweet blessed mercy! Had he killed the man?
He closed the distance with clipped steps, each one a gunshot in the small room. But Amelia didn’t so much as glance his way. She just kept staring at her brother, humming her tune, ignoring the world. The poignant image of a woman out of her mind with grief.
Graham pulled his gaze from her to examine Colin’s body, the precious little he could see of it, anyway, and his heart began to beat once again. No blue edged the man’s lips nor did a grey pallor drain any colour from his skin. In fact, though pale, his flesh appeared to be receiving quite a good amount of blood flow, and his chest rose and fell in even measures. Given the circumstances, there was nothing better to be expected, save for answers to the questions snarling a great tangle in Graham’s mind.
Had the procedure been swift enough that Colin’s torture wasn’t extended, or had he mercifully succumbed to unconsciousness?
Had the gas been abandoned altogether or managed properly despite the absence of the regulator?
How long had he been in recovery?
And—more importantly now than ever—where the devil was Peckwood? How dare he leave Amelia alone with her beloved brother lying comatose in front of her?
Graham plowed his fingers through his hair, knowing full well that now was not the time to interrogate but to comfort.
“Amelia.” He spoke as to a wounded child, softly, careful. Anything too harsh might startle and frighten.
She ignored him, neither gazing up nor ceasing her endless humming—and that cut to the bone. Was she angry he’d not been there when her brother needed him most?
“Amelia, I am here now. Will you not acknowledge me?”
Her humming continued.
“Amelia, please.” Gently, he wrapped his fingers around her upper arms and guided her to her feet. She gave no hint of resistance, not in word or deed. Just kept humming, humming, humming. Merciful heavens! Had the sight of her brother been too much to bear, breaking something in her mind?
Ever so slowly, he turned her about, and when her gaze finally landed on his face, the crooning in her throat stopped—as did his breath. The pupils in her beautiful brown eyes were small. Abnormally so. Myosis, he’d bet on it.
He rubbed his hands up and down her arms, hoping to snap her back into the real world. “Are you ill?”
Her lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, she lifted her hand and traced her forefinger along the length of his jaw and over his mouth. Her touch arced through him as powerfully as a charge from one of Peckwood’s voltaic piles.
“Ssso ssoft,” she murmured, then raised to her toes as if to kiss him.
Horrified, he pulled away and snatched one of the lamps from off a table. He held the thing steady, inches from her face. “Follow the light, Amelia.”
He moved it left then right.
