Oliver rubbed his chest where the muscle still felt knotted and uncomfortable. All of that made sense, but he still didn’t like it. He didn’t like feeling so out of control. Felipe gently brushed the hair out of Oliver’s face before taking his hand in his.
“Here, let me go talk to the healers. I’m supposed to tell them when you’re awake.” When Oliver stiffened at the idea of people coming in to examine him, Felipe added, “If you get a clean bill of health, they’ll probably let you leave.”
“Okay, but can you hold me again first? Just a little longer.”
As Felipe enveloped him in his arms, Oliver inhaled his familiar scent and froze. Beneath skin and laundry soap, there was the sharp bite of iodine and the cloying smell of open wounds. He hadn’t noticed it when he was still groggy, but now, it was all he smelled. Following the odor to Felipe’s left arm, his partner stiffened beneath him. Even if the room was so dark that Oliver could scarcely see the hand in front of his face, he knew something was very wrong with Felipe. Now that he was more awake, he could sense an undercurrent of fatigue running along the tether. At first, he had assumed it was coming from him, but no, it was rolling off Felipe like a grey fog. He had heard it in his voice too: a tremulous thinness, as if Felipe had grown threadbare. Oliver had selfishly assumed it was all due to worrying about him, but this was something more.
Gingerly touching Felipe’s left arm, Oliver probed from his shoulder to his elbow. Felipe stiffened almost imperceivably, and his pulse ticked up a fraction before going back to normal. Hooking his fingers under the cuff of his sleeve, Oliver brushed against the loose weave of gauze and beneath it, raw, angry skin. Oliver jerked back, but when he reached for Felipe’s right hand, it was uninjured. Oliver chewed his lip. How had he not noticed immediately that Felipe was hurt?
Because Felipe hadn’t wanted him to, Oliver thought bitterly. He had been so careful to only touch his face with his right hand and keep his left to his shoulder and back where Oliver wouldn’t notice.
“Felipe, what happened to your arm?” Oliver asked with icy calm.
“The black tide burned me a little; that’s all. Dr. Perkins insisted on cleaning it and wrapping it before I sat with you,” Felipe replied, his voice too matter-of-face for Oliver’s liking, “but it isn’t that bad.”
“Let me see.” When Felipe didn’t move, Oliver sat up straighter. “If it’s nothing, then turn on the lights and let me see it.”
For a long moment, neither man moved. Dread tumbled together from both sides of the tether, coiling so tightly around Oliver’s heart that he could scarcely breathe. Releasing a heavy sigh, Felipe rose and turned on the light. The pain in Oliver’s eyes at the sudden brightness gave way to horror. What the hell happened? Felipe’s eyes were sunken and bruised as if he hadn’t eaten or slept in days. His face had several days of salt and pepper stubble growth, and while his clothes were clean, they were disheveled. He looked horrible. What worried Oliver even more were the shiny, red spots littering the skin on his face and neck that resembled burns from oil splatters. They should have healed by now.
Oliver dropped his gaze to Felipe’s left hand, which trembled at his side. His bandaged fingers jittered, revealing raw flesh and blackened crust beneath the gauze. Near his wrist, Oliver thought he could make out a blister, and that didn’t bode well for the rest of the arm he couldn’t see. He must have had second- or third-degree burns, yet he carried on like nothing had happened. Heat gathered behind Oliver’s eyes as he stared at his partner. He knew his healing had slowed post-mortem. He had seen it when they were in Aldorhaven when Felipe was shot and stabbed, but this was far worse. It was almost as if he had shut it off completely.
“Felipe, what happened to you?” Oliver asked, his voice rough with waiting tears.
Before his partner could answer, footsteps sounded in the hall, and a middle-aged Chinese woman in a light pink shirtwaist and skirt bustled in. Her bright eyes widened in time with a smile as she found Oliver sitting up in bed.
“I saw the light on and thought you might be awake. Let me take a look at you.”
As Oliver submitted to her examination and answered her questions as best he could, his gaze kept drifting back to Felipe. His partner might have managed to blend into the corner and disappear again, but he wouldn’t let him off that easily. Oliver would get answers, whether Felipe liked it or not.
Chapter Seventeen
Etiam Sanato Vulnere Cicatrix Manet
Oliver had never been so relieved to be in the quiet of the elevator. After Miss Huang and the other healers gave him a thorough once over, they made certain he could eat, walk, and go to the bathroom without passing out. It was only then that they allowed him to leave the infirmary with strict instructions to rest for at least another day and to not use his powers for a few weeks until his body fully recovered. The entire time Felipe had hovered at the periphery, attentive but wary, as if he feared the healers might belatedly remember he had been injured too. When Oliver changed back into the green and grey outfit he had worn at the bazaar, he found needle marks and bruises on his arms he had no recollection of. His body not being his own, even for a brief time, disconcerted him, but if his sacrifice gave Mrs. Cutler a fighting chance of survival, then it was worth it.
As the elevator descended to the basement, Oliver caught the operator watching him from the corner of his eye with barely disguised interest. Felipe’s fingers brushed Oliver’s, and he gave them a quick, grounding squeeze. He didn’t want to know what the rumor mill was saying about what happened at the bazaar. Part of him feared he would somehow end up the villain in the eyes of the society. At least the mandated rest would let him hide out in the lab until things blew over. When the elevator door opened onto the basement, Oliver let out a relieved sigh. He wasexhausted and grubby and sore, but he was finally home. Felipe unlocked the anteroom door, and what little relief Oliver felt was drowned beneath a wave of anxiety. The evidence drop-off was overflowing with bags and envelopes, many of which were probably from the bazaar. Oliver’s heart sank. It would take him days to catch up.
“They can wait,” Felipe said firmly, stepping in front of the pile of evidence. “Before you worked here, we would wait weeks for results. I’ll help you sort through it, but for now, they can wait.”
The thought of not dealing with them immediately made Oliver’s brain itch, but Felipe was right; it could wait until tomorrow. He needed to talk to Felipe now, and the second a case was involved, that would be impossible. Luckily, the rest of the lab was as he left it, albeit with a much larger pile of mail on the bench. As soon as he saw the stacks of missives freed from their pneumatic tube capsules and sorted into neat piles, he knew Gwen had been there.Gwen. Felipe said she stopped by the infirmary on Monday to bring him fresh clothes. If it had been anyone else, Oliver would have been upset about someone rifling through his drawers and mail, but he trusted Gwen more than anyone.
Drifting over to the bench, Oliver picked through the mail. He ignored the newspapers and catalogs in favor of the interoffice missives. Most of that pile consisted of progressively ruder notes from investigators who demanded to know why their evidence hadn’t been tested or examined yet. For a fleeting moment, Oliver wanted to tell them where to put their evidence, but instead, he decided to give the letters the attention they deserved and dropped them into the trash bin. He would get to the evidence when he was up to it and not a moment before. A thick envelope at the bottom of the stack contained the rest of the photographs from Enoch Whitley’s crime scene and autopsythat DeSanto had promised, and beneath it was a request for an interview about what happened at the bazaar from a reporter who wrote forTheSociety Chronicle. Oliver ripped that one in two and threw it into the trash with the other letters. He was about to set up the coffee pot when he found his market bag sitting beside it along with a folded note.
Dear Oliver,
Agatha and Louisa sent your things from the bazaar while you were in infirmary. I put the candy and treats into the tin on the third shelf for safekeeping. Everything inedible is still in the bag. I also included the original note from Agatha and Louisa, which I already replied to with Felipe’s permission. In short, they made it home safely from the bazaar, and they send their love and wish you a speedy recovery (as do I).
They wanted to see you while you were in the infirmary, but I advised against it. Felipe seemed verydistressedabout your condition when I visited, and I thought more visitors might make it worse. Since you’re reading this note, I assume you’ve been released. Listen to the healers and doctors, and DON’T push it. I know you, Oliver Barlow. When you’re up to it and have had time to rest, I do want to talk to you about the Turpin thing. I want to know what you think because I’m not sure what to do.
Give Felipe my love and please make sure he eats. He was a wreck without you. Don’t tell him I said that. Be down to see you both soon.
Yours always,
Gwen
A small smile crossed Oliver’s lips as he tucked Gwen’s note into his pocket. He would talk to her sooner than later. He just had to settle some other business first. While Felipe pickedthrough the regular mail and skimmed through the newspapers, Oliver quickly sent a food order to the kitchens and got a pot of coffee brewing. His partner needed it; that much was obvious. Turning to the market bag, Oliver braced himself. Part of him expected to find the things inside caked in blood or burned by the acidic tide, but nothing was amiss. Neither the box of holiday cards nor the purse he planned to give Louisa for Christmas showed any signs of damage, and the bowl he had purchased for the basement apartment still felt whole within its cocoon of tissue and newspaper. The only things that were damaged in the scuffle were the prints Teresa had made. The corners were battered and creased, but the hand-colored prints of crabs, lobsters, and horseshoe crabs were unscathed. That was the important part. Everything else could be fixed.
Setting them down with shaking hands, Oliver tried to reconcile the mundane things that remained from that night with the chaos that had been burned into his mind. Oliver rubbed the sore spot in his chest. No one would look at his bag of trinkets and see the loss—the loss of work and time and money and safety—their community had endured that night. To anyone else, it would be nothing more than stuff from a holiday bazaar, but Oliver was certain no matter how much time had passed, the objects would always be a reminder of what could have been and what had been taken from people like them.
