Only when his footsteps faded up the stairs did she finally return to the pantry.
The stench of decay, in the small space, was even more noticeable now.
Daisy swallowed hard, but then quickly fetched a small wooden box—Aunt Theodora’s old collection of tinctures, salves, and remedies. Her fingers brushed against glass vials and paper packets, her mind sorting through what little she had left. Willow bark for the pain. Vinegar to cleanse the wounds. Honey, if her patient was lucky, to help him heal.
Her gaze landed on a few packets of laudanum.
He needed rest, but rest alone wouldn’t save him. Not if infection had already taken hold.
Because she knew the truth. It wasn’t the wounds themselves that killed—it was what festered inside them.
That thought jerked her into action, shoving away any lingering sense of modesty or hesitation.
Within moments, she had removed what was left of his clothing, the blood-crusted fabric peeling like old parchment from torn skin. Her fingers, although shaking at first, eventually turned methodical as she focused on one section at a time.
Beneath the grime, bruises bloomed like ink spills, deep anddark across his ribs and abdomen. Knuckles split. A gash along his thigh, scabbed over but still angry and red.
His right shoulder bore the worst of it. The torn flesh there was swollen, hot to the touch, the edges darkened—a sign of trouble.
She pressed a clean cloth soaked in vinegar to the wound, wincing on his behalf even though he made no sound. Next, she swept away debris with careful strokes, using the warm water and soap, the scent of lavender only partially covering the smell.
Not all of him was battered.
His left side—from his collarbone to his waist—was nearly untouched, the skin only marred by smudges of dirt. And aside from his thigh, though streaked with cuts, his legs appeared mostly unharmed beneath the bruises.
He had fought.
Whatever had happened to him, he had not gone down easily.
Daisy ground her teeth together and continued her work. Poultices next, then bandages. Then all she could do was wait.
Long after Gilbert had retired to his room, long after she had cleaned up the pantry and then picked at a meager supper, Daisy remained beside the near-dead stranger, terrified that if she left, she’d find him cold and lifeless in the morning.
Rather than retreat to her own room, she settled into a chair, arms wrapped around herself.
Keeping vigil.
THE GUEST
Whether it was the result of a miracle, simple good luck, or Daisy’s clumsy attempts at medical care, just before the sun crested the horizon, her patient was still alive.
When he’d thrashed around sometime after midnight, she’d dosed him with some laudanum that was left over from her aunt’s illness. Long after he’d settled down, she had remained at his bedside, cradling a cup of tea, staring at him.
Because there was… something.
With his face hidden by that thick beard, his eyes swollen closed, and bruises coloring nearly every other visible inch of skin, the man was utterly unrecognizable.
And yet, a sense of familiarity pricked the back of her neck.
But no.
True, he was the approximate age Alastair would be by now, and he wore the clothing of a gentleman, but she had been awake all night. Fatigue played tricks on the mind, and she was likely becoming delusional.
Besides, the Alastair she had known would never have ended up in a place like this, half-dead in an alley, left to rot.
Daisy shook herself, forcing her thoughts away from the past.
Whoever he was, what had he done to invite such violence upon his person?
