“Can you?” Her tone said that he couldnot.She crossed her arms over her chest.
Stoker ignored this and concentrated on animating his arms and planting his palms on the bed. His heart pounded; the sheets weighed at least a stone. Pain dragged along every limb like a match. He bit his lip and pushed on.
“Harley has midday duties,” Sabine mused, watching with a worried look, “but I could ask him to come down for five minutes.”
“I can sit.” Sweat poured down Stoker’s neck and he gasped, unable to contain the agony of shoving up. It took three tries, but he would notnotsit.
Sabine did not reach out to help him, nor did she look away. She observed his gaspy, red-faced struggle as if she was watching a stuck wagon slowly roll from the mud. Stoker closed his eyes.
“I would congratulate you,” she sighed, reclaiming her seat, “but you’ve said no platitudes. Can you still take the broth?”
“I can feed myself,” he rasped. This was likely untrue.
“Of course you can,” she mocked. He heard chair legs slide closer to the bed, the clink of the spoon. “Open.”
Stoker forced one eye open and looked at her.
“Your mouth, not your eye.”
“I will not be spoon-fed like an invalid,” he said.
“You are notlikean invalid, youarean invalid, and spoon-feeding is the only way to get this delicious soup down your gullet. Open.”
He blinked at her, wondering how long he could resist. His stomach growled again.
“Did I mention,” she sighed, “that I have a very busy day?”
“When did you write to Cassin and Joseph?” If he must consent to her ministrations, he would know forhow long.
“Four days ago,” she said, bringing the spoon to his mouth.
He could not look at her and accept food from her hand, so he closed his eyes again. The warm, salty broth pooled on his tongue, the most delicious food he had ever tasted, and he gulped it down. She spooned another dose into his mouth, and another, and another. His pride melted away, and he forgot about closing his eyes. He was ravenous for the next bite.
“Good, isn’t it?” she said. “I’ve been rather spoiled here with the Boyds. Their staff is impeccably trained and the cook in particular is a great talent.”
“No word at all from Joseph or Cassin?” Stoker asked.
“Oh yes, they’ve sent concerned letters, two and three a day, but I have hidden them from you, so that I may relish your convalescence as long as I can.” She offered a goblet of water and he drank greedily.
“Never you fear,” she sighed. “I will relinquish you to them as soon as either of them makes an appearance. In the meantime, you are stuck with me.”
“I am not ungrateful,” he said, gasping between gulps.
“You are wholly ungrateful,” she said, refilling the goblet, “but my dog likes you, and I can look after you around my other work, so it could be worse, I suppose.”
“The travel guides?” He was so weary of talking about himself.
“There is that,” she said vaguely. She took up a baguette and flapped it back and forth over his face like a fan. “Would you try some bread?”
“I can manage,” he gritted out. He forced his right arm to rise, and he snatched the bread, a small triumph. He raised his left hand and tried to rip the baguette in two, but his strength failed him. He blinked and looked at the ceiling, raging.
Sabine snatched the bread as if she hadn’t seen and tore off a hunk. She tucked a chunk into his hand. “I’m actually balancing the work of the travel guides with another project,” she told him importantly.
Whether she meant to distract from his weakness or actually wanted to share her work, he could not say. She stared thoughtfully into the distance. Stoker raised the bread to his mouth with a shaking hand and took a pathetic bite.
She glanced at him, waiting for some encouragement, and he felt compelled to go along. “What other project?”
“Piecing together criminal evidence. Against Dryden.”
