Why I am being so cloak-and-dagger, I do not know. It is unlike me to waste time on such secrecy.
The investigation into his accident, as Edric called it, was no further forward. Or rather, the progress made was so slow as tobe almost indistinguishable from a position of standing still. It had left him in a sour mood, and now he sought to escape it through sculpture.
He threw down the chisel and put his hand to his mouth, tasting the blood there. The stone at which he worked defied him, giving up the shape he had visualized very slowly. Keaton crossed the room in which he housed his modelling and sculpting. It was at the highest level of the house and had tall windows along one wall. He remembered the room being bright and airy, like being outdoors and indoors at the same time.
It made no difference to him now, of course. The room might as well have been in a lightless cellar. But he knew the brightness was there, could almost feel it as a light touch upon his skin. That made a difference. Not today, though.
There came a tap at the door, then a voice.
“Keaton?” Georgia’s familiar rasp carried through the wood.
Keaton cursed. He had been distracted enough that he hadn't heard Georgia on the staircase that led up to the room. He heard the door open before he could reach it.
“Come in, why don't you?” he said drily, turning away and producing a handkerchief from his pocket.
“I heard you cry out,” she said.
“Did you? I am surprised you heard anything originating in this room unless you were already on your way here.”
“I can assure you I was not,” she defended pointedly. “Have you hurt yourself?”
He grunted. “I seem to be making a habit of it.”
He sat down, knowing there was a cup of tea within reach. He found the cup and touched it to his lips before grimacing.
“Cold?” Georgia asked. “The pot is over here, and it feels hot still. Oh, and please do not tell your Uncle. I have never been accused of attempted murder, but I think he wanted to.”
Keaton listened to the sound of liquid being poured and felt the porcelain cup he held begin to heat up.
“He does not think you tried to murder me. He did not say that,” Keaton said in his Uncle's defense.
“I think he might if he and I had been alone.”
“No, he would not. He was just concerned to find out what had happened.”
“How is your arm?”
Keaton heard her sit.
“What was it you wished to talk to me about?” he said, ignoring her question.
“Am I not permitted to express concern for my husband?”
Keaton raised an eyebrow. Georgia did not reply immediately.
“Oh Lord, you're bleeding!” she said, suddenly, “let me see.”
“It is nothing,” he tried.
“There is a good amount of blood soaking through on that handkerchief. Let me see,” she insisted.
“It is nothing!” Keaton snapped irritably, “Desist!”
“I am only trying to help.”
“I do not need help!”
“I disagree. You patently do.”
