“Lions can eat people, I suppose,” Mirabel found herself answering.
That was what Gideon did—he asked questions. His little head was filled with them. He also interrupted and tended to forget his manners. Walters often despaired of him. He was unique, her Gideon. Sometimes Mirabel wondered where his inquisitive, stubborn nature had derived from.
Her youngest son gasped. “How would a lion eat a person?”
“Lions only eat lads who ask too many questions,” Percy said, his face expressionless.
But once more, Gideon continued, “Do lions understand questions?”
“Yes,” said Percy.
“No,” Mirabel reassured him simultaneously. “You needn’t worry about lions, my dear. You shall never meet one.”
“But what if there is a lion in Joanna’s story?” he wondered. “I shall have nightmares.”
“There are no lions in my story, you ninny,” Joanna exclaimed. “If you will only cease talking so I may finish?”
“Go on,” Mirabel urged her daughter, offering her what she hoped was a calm, encouraging smile.
They spent afternoons together, taking turns sharing whatever it was they were most proud of at the moment, and Mirabel treasured this time. Yesterday had been Percy’s turn, and he had delighted them all with his nearly flawless recitation of Latin. The day before had been Gideon’s, and to no one’s surprise, he had regaled them with a collection of worms he had rounded up from their small gardens, along with a selection of bird feathers.
Joanna continued her story. “A crash sounded. All the hounds began to bark, racing for the source of the interruption…”
The remainder of the tale concluded without further disturbance from Gideon, thank heavens. Mirabel embraced each of her children and sent them back to their lessons with their governess. Not one quarter hour later, a most unexpected caller arrived.
Young Master Davy stood on the threshold of her drawing room, his countenance ashen. “My Grace. Something terrible’s ’appened to Mr. Winter. You’ve got to come with me.”
All the lightness in her heart from spending time with her children sputtered and turned to darkness. “What can it be, Davy?”
“The piss prophet is seeing to ’im now.” The lad’s eyes were shining with unshed tears.
It was the fear on his small face that had her heart pounding as confusion set in over what he was speaking of. “Piss prophet, Davy?”
“Doctor,” he elaborated. “The sort what looks at a man’s piss to decide what ails ’im. Don’t know if this one is the sort or not. Don’t like ’im much.”
Dear God.
“Why does Mr. Winter need a doctor?” she asked, heart pounding.
“Someone attacked ’im,” Davy told her. “Left ’im in the streets, bleeding from the knowledge box.”
Mirabel supposed it was the lad’s upset that had sent him into frantic cant that was nearly impossible for her to translate. But she could glean enough from him to understand that Damian had been beaten about the head and was being tended to by a physician.
She hauled Davy into a motherly embrace, not caring if the lad thieved her earrings or anything else. “Take me to him, lad.”
* * *
A voice reached him.
The voice of an angel.
It washer.
Mira, bringing him back from the abyss.
Fingers tightened on his, and he clasped them, though his head ached. His eyelids felt as if they had been stitched shut. But slowly, he blinked them open, needing to reassure himself he was where he thought he was. That he hadn’t cocked up his toes. That the soft, reassuring voice and the velvet touch belonged to Mira.
Her beautiful face was there, hovering over him. Her brow was furrowed, her lips pinched, countenance paler than fresh cream.
