I do believe he is drunk!
As his head slowly rose, she ducked back behind the door. When she heard him advance along the hallway, she skittered across the room, weaving around the shrouded furniture, then stooping behind something large enough to conceal her. She listened as he entered the room.
“There you are!”
Her heart stopped, and she clamped a hand over her mouth.
“Who has broken you, eh? Was it me? On another drunken night? I can hardly be blamed, can I? We were never encouraged to be friends.”
Catherine froze, realizing that he was talking to someone or something else. She heard the tinkling of glass and the creaking of wood. Peering through a gap between the furniture that concealed her, she saw him lifting the picture that she haddropped moments ago. She winced as broken glass fell across his arms.
He swiped it away as though brushing aside dust. She could almost feel the shards embedding themselves into his hands.
“I remember this being painted. By God, but that was a painful experience. Father was never satisfied. And I took the blame. Always. Did you ever do anything wrong?”
Suddenly, he spun and threw the broken frame across the room.
“Damn you! Damn you both!” he roared.
Shards of broken glass had showered across Catherine as the frame exploded against the wall. She cried out, covering her head and feeling the pieces settle on her skin.
Aaron heard.
Suddenly, the chair or sideboard, whatever it was that sheltered her, was wrenched aside. He towered before her, appearing vengeful and angry. Catherine cowered before him. A trickle of blood ran between the fingers of her left hand.
“You are spying on me!” he yelled.
Then his eyes fell on the blood, and his expression changed. He fell to his knees, wrenching his coat off his back, then his waistcoat.
“You’re hurt. God, I’m sorry,” he babbled, sounding like a lost little boy.
He took her hand, and Catherine fought every instinct that told her to snatch it back and run from this drunken madman. Peering closer, Aaron deftly picked the glass shard from her hand. He gently ran his fingers over her skin, searching for more.
“I think there was only one,” she said, softly, eyes never leaving his boyish face.
“But… but there is so much blood—”
“I think it is coming from you, Aaron,” she whispered.
His hands were leaving smears of blood on everything they touched, lacerated by the glass he had tried to wipe from his coat. Now he held them up to his face, frowning in confusion.
“I don’t remember doing that,” he mumbled.
“Let me,” Catherine coaxed.
She took his hands in hers and began performing the same examination that he had just done for her. Each time she felt something sharp protruding from his skin, she extracted it as delicately as she could, squeezing the wound it left behind to force any remnants out with the fresh blood. He winced, watching her as she worked.
“I do not know if this is how it is done, but it makes sense,” Catherine said.
“Your hands are shaking,” Aaron murmured, his head close to hers.
“I am cold. I do not need any moremedicine,” she declared abruptly.
She could smell brandy from Aaron’s breath and on his clothes. It clung to him like some mischievous imp.
He smiled placatingly. “It is withdrawal. Your body craves the poppy juice—”
“It is just the cold,” Catherine countered, throwing down his hands.
