“Mark.” The voice held less insistence; more comfort. Reassurance. “You are safe. Mark. You are home.”
He stilled, although the feel of the grime beneath him, the slickness of blood on his skin, the constant pressure on his limbs held him in thrall. The battering sound of cannon echoed in his head, and pain shuddered through him in constant waves, rolling over him in an unceasing repetition.
Something cool and bitter touched his tongue.
“He did not want laudanum.”
Who was—?
“It will help with the pain.”
Another voice. But one he knew. A man...
“He is afraid of its—”
“It is a small dose.”
“So was the first one.”
“He will not come to rely on it. We will see to that.”
The bitterness passed over his tongue and down his throat.
“Is he always like this?”
“Almost every night. Not always this bad.”
Ah. That one was Matthew.
“Does he sleep at all?”
The care in the man’s voice soothed him. The battlefield faded. The hard ground beneath him turned soft, and the pressure on his arms and legs became warm, calming. Recognition settled into Mark’s mind as the fog of pain lifted.Dr. Oakley. His own bed.Mark blinked, then squeezed his eyes shut against the light.
“Not much.” A pause. “Seldom.”
“Why did you not tell me?”
Another voice. A woman. Judith?
“He did not want you to wor—”
“Nonsense. I am his mother.”
Ah.
“Would you have treated him any differently?” Matthew’s voice almost sounded amused.
“Of course not. Do not be foolish. But heismy son.”
Amazing how her words softened as she spoke. Yet still his mother. Mark cleared his throat. “I can hear you.” His words sounded like boots on gravel.
A brief silence filled the room, and Mark opened his eyes. Slowly. Squinting.
“How do you feel?” Dr. Oakley laid a gentle hand on his wrist, fingers pressed against Mark’s pulse.
“Like I have been beaten raw by ruffians in the Rookeries.”
Matthew choked a laugh. “As you have.”
