Godspeed (3 page)

The look in his eyes was such that I wondered if they were his own, yet it was fleeting and soon vanished. He turned back to the tea, fussing with the dishes, and appeared suddenly haunted by ghosts the origin of which I had no hopes of ascertaining.

“I sent someone to fetch the physician, he will be here soon. Is there anything else that I can do to make you more comfortable?”

“No, thank you. You have been… too kind already.”

“Nonsense. What good is a man in this world if he cannot come to the aid of a fellow being in trouble?”

I looked away. A lump formed deep inside my tightening throat. How often my father had said just such things to me. “Again, sir, I thank you.”

There was a knock at the door and the man turned. For an instant, his eyes took on a new light and brightness that would make much more sense to me later than it did upon this initial discovery of it.

He moved with almost panicked steps toward the door. He twisted the key in the lock and grasped the handle tight between waxen fingers. He yanked it open and firmly clasped the hand of the man on the opposite side.

“Saints above, Quinn Godspeed, I thought you'd never get back.”

“Schuyler.” The new arrival shook my host's hand once, and this Schuyler seemed reluctant to let it go. His voice took on a tone of disapproval, however, as he continued. “Use discretion. Your anxiety has made you forgetful.”

“Sorry… the name, of course.” Schuyler muttered. “You know I forget when times are most desperate.”

“It is when times are desperate that it's most important you remember.”

I tried to make sense of their enigmatic exchange, but failed. I attuned my hearing as keenly as possible to the sound of his voice, no easy task given that the world still seemed to shift and lurch around me no matter how I tried to stay still.

My head fell back against the divan's plush cushion, and I struggled to lift it again. I was now quite anxious to see what this physician, this
Quinn Godspeed
, looked like.

Nothing could possibly have prepared me for the response that my heart — my soul — had to him on a purely visceral level the moment I first saw him.

One look into his eyes told me everything that I thought I ever needed to know about him.

There was divine grace in his movements, something darkly angelic, though I could see no evidence in the tangible form of wings or halo. I doubted he could be truly human; yet whatever manner of being he was, I knew he was someone in whom I would willingly, at first sight and without question, place all of my trust.

I loved him from the second he stood before me: the very picture of nobility in white shirt, black trousers and long, sweeping waistcoat. All were perfectly fitted to his lean, powerful form, beneath an overcoat that he hadn't bothered to button against the cold. It was a small, first indication just how little matter the world outside his head seemed to him.

As he drew nearer, I heard the jingling of a chain and saw the faint glimmer of gold links attached to an ornate fob watch, buttoned neatly to his smart, pinstriped vest.

His eyes were blue, intensely, violently blue, and fringed by lashes so long they seemed better suited to one of my gender than any man I had ever seen. His hair was short and bristly. Each strand stood on end with a stubborn will all its own. When he stepped from retreating shadow fully into the light, I observed that it was different than it had looked at first blush in that it was almost completely and prematurely gray. Artfully scattered strands of the original light brown still hid in and among the metal, but it was clear that something had sped up the outward effects of the passage of time upon this man, if not the actual clock itself.

What had he survived, I longed to know, that could take such a toll on one who appeared still to be so young?

His aspect was dark, mournful, haunted, and from the instant I sensed his pain, my soul was captured and bound to him in a way that I'd never experienced in my life.

The truth is I would have let him do absolutely anything he wanted to me.

So much faith did I have in his genius, as soon as I saw that inexplicable, intoxicating combination of brilliance and madness in him, I was so much more than just willing to put my very life into his hands.

That was, as it happened, exactly what I did.

C
HAPTER
4

“HAS SHE SPOKEN?”
Quinn asked, tossing both of his coats aside and beginning to roll up his sleeves. He proceeded to a stand in the corner containing a basin and pitcher of water and commenced washing his hands.

“A few words, here and there, with much effort,” Schuyler replied, watching Quinn's every move with unwavering attention.

“Where did she come from?”

“She would not say.”

“Hmm,” Quinn grumbled. “And you've left her in her soaking clothes? Have you gone mad?”

“What do you suppose I put her in? One of my dressing gowns?”

“Better than letting her shiver on so.” The doctor shook his head. “You expect me to believe you don't have something suitable tucked away in this flying circus you call your existence?”

I did not marvel that they spoke of me as if I was not present. It was hardly as though it was the first time it had happened in my life, only the first time for this particular pair of gentlemen, and it would set precedent.

“Where did you find her?”

“Not far away.”

“Could you be any less precise?”

Schuyler emitted a low growl. “Does it truly matter?”

“With so little to go on, every detail matters.”

Schuyler's lips pursed and froze into a distinct, if only momentary, pout. He folded his arms and shifted his weight from boot to boot. “Up the block, about three doors down. Near the corner where Tower
Place meets Eternity Court.” Schuyler seemed to shiver himself now with the shock of a new and haunting thought. “So near the cemetery…”

Instead of thanking him for the elaboration, the doctor continued his rapid-fire questioning. “Has she remained conscious?”

“Since I revived her, yes.”

“One small victory.”

Schuyler frowned again. “You're welcome.”

Quinn opened up a small leather bag he'd brought with him and began rifling through the contents. “She has a pallor that concerns me.” He stopped speaking and withdrew a listening scope from the bag. He placed the earpieces and then moved toward me, without hesitation pressing the cold metal end to my chest, just above the bodice of my dress. I startled, not just from the shock of the chill but more so from his close proximity.

“Breathe steadily, if you can, girl,” he instructed. “Deep breaths.”

I struggled to draw in air and the pain was excruciating. I began to cough. He pulled the scope away and waited for the fit to subside.

“Try again.”

As I did so, he moved his scope around my chest, closing his eyes as he listened. When he was satisfied, he reached out and placed his hand against my back to lean me forward. I felt the still cold metal press behind me as he continued to listen.

“Her issues are definitely cardiac in nature,” he said, turning back toward the man who had rescued me from the world beyond his door, and again speaking as if I could not hear.

“Are you certain?”

The doctor glared, insulted by the very question.

“I'm sorry,” Schuyler said, and brushed an unsteady hand back through his artfully contrived, shining mop of hair. “I know this is your area of…”

“Schuyler. Stop.” Quinn pulled the earpieces away and roped the scope's length around the back of his neck as he returned his attention to me. “Do you have any idea, girl, how precarious your situation is?”

I lowered my eyes to acknowledge that I did.

“Do you understand that catching cold, wandering these streets as you were doing just before, could hasten your demise?”

His honesty surprised me. No one had ever spoken so bluntly to me before of the possibility of it, let alone the eventuality being hastened if I was not very careful what I did. Again, I could only nod.

“You require immediate and aggressive medical intervention. You need strong medicine to drive the chill from your lungs before it takes root and grows into something malignant, and you must stay where you will be properly cared for.” He saw a look cross my face and something in him, just for an instant, softened. “Where is your home?”

Tears burned at the corners of my eyes and I hated myself for it. I fought them with the last of my resolve. For reasons I didn't yet understand, I wanted to show this man only my strength. I had a feeling that he would condemn any outward display of lesser emotions, and I did not want him to judge me weak. I wanted him to think well of me. It mattered very much, though I could not possibly have explained why.

He sighed and turned once more to his companion. “Schuyler, get another log for the fire? It's too bloody cold in here.”

Schuyler's lips parted. His tongue darted from between them, eager to protest. The doctor's continued stare gave him pause, and Schuyler flinched. Finally he smacked his lips together, gave a single, wilted nod of acquiescence, and departed.

The moment we were alone, the doctor returned to questioning me.

“Why can't you go home?” he asked, as he assessed me with disapproving eyes. Slowly he looked me up and down, scrutinizing my face and then jumping straight to my feet as if skipping on purpose for propriety's sake all parts of me in between. It was clear that even if his manner was short, and his speech unvarnished by choice, that he was, in fact, a gentleman. “Speak slowly, and softly. In short sentences, so as not to bring on another fit.”

I nodded, and was surprised by the frailty in my own words as I spoke them in halting increments. “I have… no home… to go back to… sir.”

“You were turned out, then.”

I averted my eyes, ashamed.

“What wrong did you commit to earn the punishment?”

“Becoming sick, sir.”

“You
were
a servant.” He nodded in complete certainty of his conclusion and continued without let-up. “I thought so, judging by
your manner of dress. Too institutional to be of the upper class, too formal to belong in the gutters of Fairever.”

Though I did not try to offer a reply to his opinion, another fit of coughing seized me and he reached for a nearby pitcher. He poured some water and spoke again in that directive, commanding tone as he thrust the glass to my lips. “Slowly.”

I tried to do as he asked, but his insistence was too much, and I choked on the liquid as I had before. He withdrew the glass and frowned, muttering to himself again. “How any family of conscience could turn a creature in your condition out into the cold and dangerous city streets is truly beyond my comprehension.”

“Others suffer… no such… burden of conscience,” I whispered. How hurt my father would be, I thought, if he knew that so soon after I had fallen ill, the family he had sacrificed so much for would turn his only child out into the world to die alone.

“I will make arrangements for you to stay here with my friend Schuyler tonight.” The doctor took note of the rising fear in my eyes and surmised that even though I had been treated well enough to this point, very well, indeed, that I was still frightened of his friend.

“No need to fear, girl. Schuyler Algernon is a man upon whose kindness and generosity I would stake my own life. Truth is, there have been occasions on which I have.” He took the listening scope from around his neck and twisted it in his hands. The wringing motion made it appear that he very much wished, in his frustration, to strangle something, or someone.

“Couldn't I…” I stopped, as he turned back to me with an instantly exasperated expression.

“Couldn't you what?”

“Couldn't I… stay with you?”

“Absolutely not.” He returned the scope to his bag and withdrew a bottle of medication. He took a teaspoon from the tray beside me into one hand and shook the contents of the bottle with the other. “Schuyler will make certain that you are comfortable.”

“Then… what?” I worried, already, where I would go from here.

“Then tomorrow, we'll see.” He poured a spoonful of thick, emerald green liquid and held it up near my mouth. “Swallow this in one go, or you will regret it.”

I took it in and immediately gagged. I forced it down, and my eyes watered as I nodded my thanks to him. A sensation of warmth spread through my chest, and I started to feel drowsy. Within seconds, my head tilted back onto the cushion once again, and it was nearly impossible to keep my senses. Clearly this vile concoction was something of a sedative.

Schuyler returned to the room and tossed more fuel onto the fire. He leaned against the mantle, shook water from his hair, and then watched the log catch. He reached for the poker as finally, my leaden eyelids slipped closed. I heard the sound of scraping first against metal and then the whooshing roar of the fire as the renewed flames threw more heat toward us all.

“What do you think, Quinn?” Schuyler asked, as I fought enveloping haze to continue listening.

“She is in grave condition,” the doctor answered. “She may not live to see morning.”

The words painfully echoed in my head. I might not live to see morning: the morning that would mark my eighteenth birthday.

“God in heaven, that is awful. Is there nothing a surgeon could do?”

“I am a surgeon, lest you forget.”

“Trust me, Quinn, that is one thing that I shall never forget.” Schuyler's voice was poisoned now by a palpable bitterness. “If it is her heart…”

“It most definitely is her heart.” The chain of Quinn's watch jingled as I heard his steps retreat. He moved across the room, pulled the stopper from a crystal decanter of spirits and poured a glass. “Drink, Schuyler?”

“If not now, when?” Schuyler asked, and I heard his own steps follow in the direction Quinn had gone. Silence reigned for a moment. I determined from it that they were consuming their beverages with great speed and efficiency; they were drinking purely for effect.

I heard a deep sigh, and then a worried tone. “Are you certain she can't hear what we're saying?” Schuyler inquired. At hearing the question I involuntarily inhaled, and in so doing, gave myself away.