Font Size:
Now Stoker did say, “Off!” but it was drowned out by the dog. The animal crouched in a defensive position on his chest, baring its teeth between barks. Four razor paws dug into the thin barrier of sheet and nightshirt.
“Bridget, down!” said a voice from the doorway, and Stoker craned his head, trying to see.
“Bridget,”repeated a firm female voice, “I said,down!”
Footsteps—and then there she was, plucking the dog from his chest, its short, mangy legs windmilling in midair—a blur of yellow dress. Stoker lifted his head, trying to see around the dog to the woman. He saw yellow again, black hair, swift, efficient movements, and then—
He dropped his head back to the pillow.
Sabine Noble.
His wife.
