“Hartgrave has that effect on people.” Emily yawned again, unable to stop. “Should we wake him?”
“He needs the sleep,” her mother said. “We all do, for that matter.”
“I’m sorry,” Emily whispered, not opening her eyes, unable to face her parents in this moment of truth. “I’m really, desperately sorry. I was wrong to volunteer myself—Hartgrave didn’t want me to, which should have been a clue—and I didn’t consider how it would affect you. I didn’t once think you might be at risk, too.”
Her father squeezed her hand. “If you hadn’t gotten involved, you wouldn’t be you, now would you?”
“I won’t pretend it hasn’t been awful,” her mother said, “but—well—all’s well that ends well. We’re proud of you.”
Archetypal heroes really missed out, not having parents to cosset them afterward.
23
Visits
Emily opened her eyes to an empty chair and stared at it until she remembered where she was and who was supposed to be sitting there. She bit her lip, surprised and disappointed. It hadn’t occurred to her that Hartgrave might leave before he saw for himself that she was all right, not after he’d waited so stubbornly.
Then, shifting in a futile effort to relieve her full-body ache, she saw his mother’s watch on her wrist. It glinted at her like a promise.
Perhaps he’d delayed their first post-battle conversation because he feared what she would say, never mind that she’d told him during the fight it wasn’t his fault. Maybe he thought she wouldn’t forgive almost dying.
And there was, she supposed, a difference between forgiving and wanting to continue the relationship. Could she really trust Hartgrave after this?
His stint with the Organization wasn’t what most bothered her, not after she saw firsthand how easily Kincaid could make something appear to be the opposite of what it was. More troubling was how well Hartgrave hid it from her. How easilyhecould make something appear to be, if not the opposite of itself, then at least quite different.
She didn’t think he had ever technically lied to her, but what did that matter if she had to analyze every sentence out of his mouth for double meanings and omissions?
She glared at the chair, his stand-in. If only he were here, he could argue on his behalf. She wanted a reason to discount her concerns.
Well. How concerning was it, really? All his equivocations had been artfully designed to avoid a single subject, hadn’t they, and now she knew what it was. She’d just have a serious talk with him about the importance of unadulterated honesty—and of trusting her not to run screaming just because he wasn’t perfect.
There, that was neatly taken care of. Now if only he’d show up so she could get the talking-to over with and move on.
She’d barely had that thought when someone opened the door. She tried to turn over to see who it was, nerve endings singing with something that temporarily overshadowed pain.
“Hey now! Stop—I’m coming around.”
Not Hartgrave. Bernie, moving slowly but looking so Bernie-ish in a polka-dotted fedora that he had to be more all right than not.
As he sat in the chair, a small parade of medical professionals trundled in, and the next ten minutes were a mix of poking, prodding and bandage-changing.
“Everything’s looking remarkably well, under the circumstances,” a white-haired doctor said, straightening up. “You had two separate fractures to your left olecranon—funny bone,” she said in an apologetic aside. “Not too funny, I know. We took care of that while you were in surgery. The fracture in your right foot isn’t as bad, fortunately, and you’ve got no cracked ribs—I’m sure you’re sore, but it’s just bruising. Best of all, no infection in your wound.
“Of course, had you arrived here any later ...” The doctor trailed off. “I’m so sorry your vacation was ruined, but if youhadto be stabbed, a few blocks from St. John’s is just about the ideal place.”
“Uh, right,” Emily said, recognizing a cover story when she heard one.
Bernie cleared his throat. “Do you remember anything about it? Because I believe the police are going to want to interview you about those crazy tourists who picked a fight with us, now that you’re back in the land of the living.”
She opened her mouth, closed it and aimed for an expression of mild anxiety. Feeling positively Hartgravean, she said, “It’s just like it never even happened.”
“Well—you don’t appear to have any head trauma,” the doctor said, looking at her notes. “Sometimes peoplehave no memory of an accident or other traumatic injury. You’re not having trouble remembering other things, are you? No? Then just give it time ...”
The parade moved on. Bernie glanced at her, his smile just as mischievous as usual. “Em my girl, you really did get yourself into it, didn’t you?”
She raised her eyebrows, just about the only parts of her not currently protesting. “‘The valiant never taste of death but once.’”
“Hah! Touché.”
