“Markus, can you head into town and purchase me a few supplies?” Before he even finished nodding, she was rattling off a list. The words ran together she spoke so fast, and I knew she was doing it on purpose.
By the time the list had finished, Syrus was back, and she accepted a glass of water on my behalf. Lifting my arms was near impossible.
“Syrus, please assist Markus with collecting the items atthe market.”
He didn’t even ask what the items were. He just nodded and left.
And just like that, I was alone with the female doctor, who was at least somewhat respected, I hoped.
“I’m Friar,” she introduced herself, the name one I hadn’t heard in a long time. “Let’s take a look at what the viscount has done this time.” She reached down to help yank my shirt over my head. I didn’t stop her, my mind either slow from the injury, or just running without my input, I couldn’t be sure. It wasn’t until it was off, gripped in her delicate hands, that I noticed the blood on it.
And that it was too late for my excuse.
She eyed the wrappings around my chest, her lips slightly agape.
“I . . . er . . .” All of the excuses died on my lips. I knew after years of practice that my wrap was good, but there were still two small, but distinctive, mounds beneath the fabric. Nothing I had prepared would explain this.
But fate took that option away from me anyway, because, at that moment, the door swung open. Before I could warn Friar, or even pull down my shirt to conserve my modesty, General Otho, who looked much different ducking into the small room where the doctor worked, sauntered in, his gaze immediately flying to the bandages and . . .
I yanked my shirt from Friar’s grip, clutching it to my chest while simultaneously wondering what would happen when news of my . . . or Milo’s death, reached the center of town. Had he already proposed to Helene? Hopefully. It would put a damper on their wedding, that was for sure. Hopefully he had used chemicals from my collection to turn his hair blond.
Anything to avoid this embarrassment.
And my eminent death.
As my thoughts continued their slow spiral, I noticed three things simultaneously. One, the fact that neither Friar norGeneral Otho had spoken yet. Two, that all the color had drained from General Otho’s face. Three, Otho had perhaps the most beautiful gray eyes I had ever seen on a man—something I had failed to notice during our first meeting.
Then the shouted words, “Who did this to you?”
CHAPTER 7
Those words were enough to break the spell that had fallen over the room, and in an instant, Friar was up and out of her chair, pushing General Otho out the door and shouting to him in rapid speech I was still unable to decipher.
I kind of wished I could understand her, but at the same time, if they were discussing my imminent execution, maybe this was better. Safer.
Whatever she said to General Otho must have been enough, for I soon heard the sound of footsteps retreating from the door.
There was silence—too much silence. My brain screamed. I had to break it.
“How will I die?” The words were a whisper. I blinked, a lock clicked, and Friar was back across the room, kneeling at my bedside.
She shook her head. “Otho won’t tell.”
I raised my eyebrows. I was growing suspicious of the large number of Viscount Adis’s staff who were willing to disobey his rules.
“I can’t tell you how I know.” She added, “But I knowOtho . . . well. Let me look at your ribs.” I hesitated. “Now, before the two idiots come back.”
At least I wasn’t the only one who had noticed the lack of intelligence radiating from Markus and Syrus. I acquiesced and lifted my arms as much as I could with my injury, allowing her to begin the delicate process of unwrapping my midsection.
As layer after layer after layer of cloth fell away, the pain abated slightly, and a small tendril of relief filtered in. I had been keeping my wrapping on day and night, for fear of oversleeping as had happened this morning, and my body was protesting.
Once it was all off, and I was bare in front of another person for what was probably only the second time in my life, her hands gently prodded my ribs, her eyes flickering to and from my face as she gauged my reaction and pain levels.
“Nice serpent.”
I grimaced, both because I missed my brother, and because she’d touched an especially sensitive part. “Thanks,” I breathed.
“You’ve got a couple of broken ribs.” She stated the obvious, her eyes darting to my discarded wrappings. “The wrapping prevented them from falling back into place.”
