“A particular item about yea big.” He held out his hands, roughly sketching out the size of the statue he had yet to claim. A waft of his own body odour curled his upper lip. “The piece is made of gold. Got an eagle head and wings on the body of a lion.”
Dandrae narrowed his eyes, a knowing glint sparking. “Ye mean a griffin?”
He flung his hands wide. “I don’t know what the thing is called!”
“Sounds like a griffin, man.”
“Whatever it is, I want it, and I know who’s got it.” He hobbled over to the imposing desk and planted his palms on the top. “That snip of a Shadow Broker.”
“Then you are out of luck, man.” A wide smile split Dandrae’s face. “The Shadow Broker never sells, only buys.”
“Then we make the offer too tempting to refuse.”
Dandrae shook his head. “The Broker is not interested in coins, no matter how many ye got jingling in yer pocket.”
“Then what’ll tempt her?”
“She cares only for restoring Egyptian artifacts to the museum for the fancy of all folk.”
Straightening, Brudge swiped the sweat from his brow with a stained cloth. “I’ve got something she’ll want, then. Something she’ll be willing to hand over that hideous little statue for.”
“And what is that, man?”
He shoved his cloth into his pocket. “A promise.”
Though Edmund had asked her to leave, here she was, still at Price House three days later, and there was nothing he could do about it. There was nothing he could do about anything, actually, which grieved her. Despite sorrow and fatigue weighting her steps, she trudged up the stairs with a sense of gratitude. Though half the house was abed, stricken by illness, at least no one had died.
She set off from the kitchen with a tray of beef broth, oddly relishing the quietness of the house—the soft ticking of clocks, steady as heartbeats, and the occasional creak of a floorboard beneath her padding feet. Without guests or servants wandering the corridors, the great house was peaceful. In the midst of this tranquility, a question lingered like a shy child peeking round a curtain. ... Was there a value in this quietude that she’d never before recognized? That of simply being? It was freeing indeed to not have to prove herself to anyone, to merely live in the quiet moments where the world spoke in whispers. Perhaps—just maybe—all her striving to prove her intelligence and credibility didn’t matter a whit to God. If that was true, then perhaps her worth was in who she was, who God made her to be, instead of being measured by what she achieved. Dare she believe that?
Hmm. Now there was a thought she wouldn’t mind dwelling on instead of wondering just how many breaths Edmund might have left in him.
She climbed the stairs, clutching the tray and humming “Blessed Assurance” for all she was worth. Focusing on things for which she was grateful was the only way she’d gotten through thus far. If she dwelled on Edmund’s pale face and feverish skin...
Oh, Lord . . .
Once again tears welled, the song broken and bitter in her throat.
Please, Father, grant that Edmund will recover.
She sped past Mr. Fletcher’s closed door, a garish rendition of “The Blue Danube” pulsing behind it. As short-staffed as they were, he’d still ordered someone to haul the Swiss music box to his chamber. Selfish man. But at least it kept him occupied.
Sighing, she traveled the rest of the passageway to Edmund’s door. Visiting a single man’s bedchamber was nothing out of the ordinary for a housemaid—the role she’d added to her repertoire. And besides, there wasn’t the slightest chance of anything untoward happening, not with Edmund being so ill. Still, she hesitated before entering. Somehow, it just felt indecent. Not to mention pointless. He’d not been awake to eat since Saturday, shortly after he’d ordered her to leave.
Shoving aside the last of her reservations, she balanced the tray on one hand and fumbled with the doorknob. At the very least, she could swab his brow with a cool cloth, though reading from her story seemed to better calm him when he was restless. She’d nearly recited the whole tale.
She pushed open the door and, three steps later, froze. Bedsheets fell over the side of an empty mattress. A pillow lay on the floor.
And eyes the colour of faded twilight stared at her from an armchair near the hearth, where Edmund sat in a loose-fitting nightshirt, a lap rug drawn hastily over his bare legs.
“Ami?” His voice broke, and he cleared his throat several times. “Are you ... are you really here? Or is this another dream?”
“I hope not,” she whispered, hardly able to make her own words come out. He was awake! He was whole! Granted, he was paler than a New Kingdom mummy, but nevertheless, he would live.
The first real smile she’d owned in days stretched her lips. “Been dreaming of me, have you?” Closing the distance between them, she set the tray on the small table at his side. “But in answer to your question, yes, I truly am here, and it is good to finally see you stirring. You are feeling better, I take it?”
“Much.” His brows gathered, a dark line against his ashen skin. “But why are you here?”
“Bringing your dinner, of course.” She held out a spoon.
