“Preferable?” he said shakily.
She chuckled and she heard him wince. It could not be useful for him to drape across the curved landscape of her body. She began the slow, strange process of disentangling their arms and legs. By inches, she slid from beneath him. There was no graceful or impersonal way to do it. She touched every plane of him, every crook, every hollow and swell. When, at last, her arms and legs were free, she rolled right and tumbled onto the floor. Bridget barked and he let out a moan.
“I am fine,” Sabine announced.
“This was not worth the letters I posted,” Stoker said to the ceiling.
“Obviously,” she said, “and we haven’t even gotten to the truly terrible part.”
“No.”
“No—what?” She sighed, brushed back her hair, now loose and wild.
“No to whatever you believe to be worse than what we’ve just done.”
“I must look in on your stitches,” she said. “If you’ve torn them, I will have to send for Dr. Cornwell.”
“For God’s sake, Sabine,” he breathed, “send for the bloody doctor. Please.” He sought out her face with red, weary eyes. His skin looked grey beneath his tan, and his hair was wet with sweat. “I will pay for the man to call every ten minutes if that is what I require. Spare yourself bloody stitches, if nothing else.”
“Fine,” she said, and she realized she was relieved. He had won this point. Dragging him through the apartments was one thing; torn stitches were quite another.
She brushed her hands briskly over her dress, avoiding his gaze. “I’ll just dash off a summons. Don’t move,” she said, and he actually barked a faint laugh.
Five minutes later she’d written to Dr. Cornwell and sent the note to Harley Street with a groom.
“I suggested it was urgent,” she said, returning to the doorway. “He won’t be long.” She paused, watching him. He hadn’t moved from the spot where they had flung themselves. His gasping breaths had subsided, and she wondered if he’d fallen asleep.
“Stoker?” She took a step into the room.
“I’m here,” he said, staring at the ceiling.
“Are you... comfortable?” It seemed like the correct thing to ask.
“No,” he said.
“Should I—”
“No,” he said.
“You would be an easier patient if you were more demanding,” she said.
“You say that, but it is not really true.”
“I feel rather helpless, now that you’re awake. If I’m being honest.”
He chuckled and then winced. “May you never know real helplessness.”
“Oh, but you forget. I already have.”
He raised his head. “Yes, I suppose you have.”
A flash of recognition passed between them. She looked into his eyes and they saw the same memory. She could not think of the next thing to say. She took another step into the room.
Stoker said, “Will you tell me what you discovered when you were out today? With the sailors?”
“You’re joking,” she said, a test. She wanted to tell him.
“Not a joke,” he said. “Why would you say that?”
