The Miss Education of Dr. Exeter (20 page)

America wrapped an arm around her belly, and smiled weakly. “I think so.”

 

Entombed under rock and rubble, Exeter fought to stay connected with Mia. Earlier, he had experienced a sensory impression of rain, and the scent of lavender. A part of him was incensed, protective—frustrated he could not help her. And yet another side of him was curious, most disturbingly, in a prurient way. Mia was being touched, and yet he received only fleeting impressions of her growing arousal before she cut him off.

He continued to manifest enough potent force to keep the cave-in from collapsing his lungs, but he would not last forever. In the interest of conserving energy, he had attempted to quiet his mind, and purposely slowed his breathing. Inhales had grown as shallow as exhales. Frankly, he wondered if he was nearing delirium, or worse
non compos mentis
.

He held out hope that the communicator device, no matter where it was buried, still served as a locator. The others would arrive in time to unearth him. He would survive. He would make sure that Mia, America, and Phaeton were safely away. Then he would find Prospero and kill him.

Reaching for deeper stillness, he was distracted by the slightest disturbance of air. A sense of motion, and something else—a presence in the catacombs—an entity of some kind. He resisted the urge to call out for help, until he could resist no longer. Not when there was a possibility that Tim and the others were close by. “Hello—anyone?”

Something skittered along the edge of the wall. Small dark objects with many legs rounded a pile of stone. Exeter squinted. Christ . . . locator bugs. Nearly a dozen of them swarmed over the rubble and came to rest near his head.

“Ah, there you are.” The voice came from overhead. A bushy brow and a very large eye peered over the rock pile directly above him—something heavily whiskered and ornery looking.

Suddenly, he had company. Exeter allowed himself a small moment of elation. By the size of the beast, this had to be the troll—the creature Ping had mentioned. “You wouldn’t happen to be able to levitate large stones and a good deal of sand and rubble . . . by any chance?”

The troll’s muffled reply came from behind the rock. “I was sipping a cup of Earl Grey below Sorbonne Square when I heard the explosion. What on earth happened?”

“Trip wire.” Exeter released a loud exhale. A complete waste of potent force, but then again—why not? This large specimen of troll could easily lift some of the bigger chunks of limestone with ease. “Some friends of mine are in trouble . . . I must go to them.”

“And you, sir? Would you not call your predicament . . . trouble?” The troll’s chuckle loosed rock and debris from the ceiling.

Exeter squinted to keep the dust out of his eyes. “My friends,” he reemphasized, “have been captured by an off-world wizard by the name of Prospero. Know him, by any chance?”

A huge, hairy head rose from the top of the rubble pile and blinked both eyes. “We haven’t been introduced, per se, but I do believe I know to whom you are referring.” The troll spoke in a deep, refined voice, with a vocabulary that was educated.

“Yes, well, if you would be so kind to help me out from under these rocks and point me in the right direction? I’ll be on my way.”

“And might there be a reward”—in no hurry, the troll rested his chin on a mitten-like paw—“for the effort?”

“Compensation is not a problem. Name your price, sir.” Exeter coughed up a lungful of limestone dust.

“I have no use for money,” the troll harrumphed.

“I see.” Exeter wrenched his neck to get a better look at the wooly mammoth. “You did mention a reward—might we strike a trade, then? My release for—”

“Arcane knowledge.” A large, hairy face dropped down in front of him—nose to nose, only upside down.

“Right.” Exeter inched as far away as his confinement would allow. He racked his brain for an offer. “I am acquainted with a gentleman by the name of Mr. Eden Phillpotts, proprietor of the Antiquarian Bookshop, 77 Charing Cross Road. London.”

The troll lifted the rest of his hulking frame over the top of the rock pile and took a seat on a slab of limestone. “And might this proprietor—have a knowledge of spells?”

The furry-faced character removed a pipe and pouch of tobacco from a velvet smoking jacket. Exeter noted the elaborate tangle of embroidery covering the shawl collar and cuffs. Rather tony for a troll. “So . . .” A side of his mouth twitched upward. “You are a prince who was turned into a creature of the catacombs by an evil sorceress.”

The troglodyte struck a match and puffed, thoughtfully. “Hardly a gripping hypothesis, yet astonishingly accurate in some respects.” The acrid stink of sulfur was quickly replaced by the pleasant scent of pipe tobacco.

For a moment, Exeter thought he might be balmy from lack of oxygen. “Or, if you’d rather—I have an extensive private collection—in the library of secrets—the shelves are chock-a-block with spells, as well as counterspells. You are welcome at Roos House on the Thames anytime you happen to be in London . . . in the late nineteenth century.”

The troll took a few more meditative puffs. “Counter . . . spells?”

Exeter nodded. “Indeed. For every conjuration there is often an equal and opposite incantation, or haven’t you heard?” For a beast under an enchantment, the troll seemed woefully unacquainted with spells. Unless this strange character was acting the dunce. As exhausting as this circular conversation was, he almost smiled. “Newton’s laws of spells, actually.”

M
IA BANGED ON THE HEAVY IRON DOOR
. “We have a young woman in here who is in labor. Open up this minute.” Her fist came away covered in red dust, the rusty residue of a door that had to have medieval origins.

“Mia . . . dear . . . you know nothing of birthing.” Phaeton’s white-knuckle grip on his cell bars gave him away. He was losing his composure.

“Exeter does.” She banged on the door again. It was rather touching to witness the unflappable Phaeton Black lose his equanimity. It might even be amusing, were it not for the fact that America was about to give birth. Perhaps to a very special child.

She turned to pound again when a small panel slid back. The grating noise made her skin crawl. Formal attire—including a white bow tie. Prospero ducked to see through the opening. He appeared to be dressed for an evening at the opera, or perhaps a ball.

“Why do you disturb me so?” He asked the question in a rhetorical manner, with a touch of sarcasm in his voice. It might almost be charming if it were not for the fact that her friend was in labor.

“Release us,” Mia pleaded. “I need to get America to the hospital—we are in the Outremer, are we not? Exeter mentioned they deliver babies in hospitals.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” His words and tone were clipped, resolute.

“You can have the damned stone—I’ll ask for whatever you want—just get her to a doctor.” Phaeton shook the bars of the cell so hard they actually rattled.

“Oh, dear,” America moaned. “I’m leaking!” Water formed a puddle underneath the bench America lay on.

Her water has broken.
Exeter interjected.
The contractions will begin to come at closer intervals, now.
His thoughts helped her immeasurably. Whatever happened, she would not be alone—a doctor would guide her, but oh Lord, could she do this?

“I have a meeting across town—in your time.” The wizard’s words jerked her back to the small opening in the door. He was not nearly as frightening dressed in a tuxedo and silk opera hat, but the dark menacing look had returned. A look that spoke of mistrust, anger, any number of unspeakable terrors. “So if you’ll excuse me, I have business elsewhere.” As cavalier as Prospero appeared, his gaze continued to flick past her to America.

Mia looked him up and down. “Conspiring to make more of those ungodly miserable creatures?” She bit her lip, wishing her cheeky mouth was a bit less sharp. Still, she met his gaze and did not falter. “What if I offer a trade? Me, for blankets and pillows, towels, soap and water . . .” She rattled off a list of supplies as fast as Exeter enumerated the items in her head.

Prospero squinted. “I already have you.”

“Granted, you have captured me and could take me by force, but honestly, aren’t you bored flailing that cat-o’-nine-tails about? I could offer genuine affection. We could start with something sensuous. I could oil some anal beads . . .” Silently, she thanked Exeter’s small but exotic pornography collection. “Would that pleasure you? Or you might allow me to caress the scars on your back.” She swallowed. “Whichever . . . would please you most.” It was her first and only erotic flirtation, and a bit awkward at that.

Mia held her breath and waited. She caught a glimpse of Prospero’s stunned face as the metal grate slammed shut. She turned to her friends, and exhaled a sigh of defeat. Phaeton winked at her. “Bloody, brilliant, Mia. Give him a moment.”

She straightened. “Do you think so?”

“He’s a bit of an odd duck, very emotional at times.” Phaeton shrugged. “Any sentiment hardens quickly, so beware, he’s . . . ruttish.”

Mia knelt in front of America’s large bump and massaged lightly with her fingertips. She spoke in a harsh whisper to both Phaeton and America. “The Nightshades have a plan, which I suspect is going to play out fairly quickly. Let us hope for the best.”

America started to wail a bit and gasp for air, as a contraction clenched her belly.
Oh, Exeter, what shall I do?

“Everything is going perfectly, America. Your water has broken.” Trying for cheerful, she managed a tight-lipped smile. Hard to not be terrified under the circumstances. America in labor and Exeter buried under a several tons of rubble. He claimed he was safe for now, having cocooned himself in potent energy, but how long would he be able to hold back the crushing weight of stone? Mia could only imagine the exhaustion he must be experiencing.

She chewed on a raw bottom lip and stopped herself. She must not unduly worry America and Phaeton. They had a baby on the way under the most stressful circumstances imaginable. She would not tax them further.

Grating and creaking noises caused them all to look up. The pair of odd creatures from the cabaret, Dee and Tweez, respectively, carried in blankets, pillows, and towels, along with a large basin of hot water and a cake of soap. Prospero stood in the doorway looking formidable—dashing as well as ferocious. And he was holding a medical kit.

Mia squinted. “How did you get hold of Exeter’s bag?”

He set the satchel down next to her. “I used my wizarding ways.” His sly grin and narrowed gaze lingered for a moment. A shiver traveled through her—his essence—an exotic, subtle kind of magic that felt . . . Mia caught her breath. He studied her reaction with interest. “I collected one of your evening gowns and a few unmentionables.” He nodded to the folded pile beside the kit.

She was being drawn to him. No doubt a spell of some kind, just like in the shower. She steeled herself and was aided by the interruption of another contraction.

Phaeton strained to hold America through the bars. “I’m here, darling.”

“Don’t you dare darling me,” America gasped as the contraction grew stronger. “You did this to me.”

Undaunted by Prospero’s wide stance and dark glare, Mia pleaded with the wizard. “Please let him out. He should be by her side—hold the baby, once she arrives.”

“Phaeton stays where he is. You can move her closer to the cell, if you wish.” Prospero directed the two bulbous-headed droolers to unlock the cuffs on America’s wrists. He then lifted America up in his arms. “What are you waiting for? Move the bench.” The smallish creatures pushed the heavy wooden seat against the cell bars and Mia covered it with a blanket and sheet, quickly propping several pillows at one end. Prospero set her down gently and turned for the door. “I won’t be long.”

Mia placed America’s hand in Phaeton’s. “Squeeze.”

A sudden feeling of abandonment came over her—not that this man was much comfort, but he was a wizard. He could make things happen. “Wait. Who are you meeting with?” She was well aware of the audacity of her question. “In case I need to get ahold of you.”

He stopped abruptly. “. . . Eight rue de Talleyrand. I have an engagement with a Mr. Julian Ping.” He pivoted back to her slowly. “Know him?”

Mia shot upright and stared. She neither confirmed nor denied any knowledge of Ping, but even so she suspected he saw through her silence. A wry, thin smile tugged at the ends of Prospero’s mouth. He glanced at America, who was beginning to puff again. “Miss Jones, I leave you in capable hands.” He nodded to his henchmen. “Make every effort to provide Miss Chadwick with whatever she needs.” The moment the iron door slammed shut, Mia dressed in a hurry.

Prospero knows he’s headed into a trap.
Her heart fluttered with fear and, oddly, relief—for everyone concerned. Ping was a powerful jinni. He and Tim Noggy would capture the wizard—put a stop this madness—finally get some answers. And the Moonstone, under Phaeton’s direction, would restore Gaspar and repair the unraveling worlds of the Outremer.

Mia settled beside America and listened to the man inside her head, who described a huge hairy bloke, a troll, who had begun to move the larger stones and rubble away.
Patience, Mia, I shall not be long.

America read her expression. “It is Exeter—you are experiencing thought transference.”

Mia nodded.
Tell me what to do.

Mia sat upright. “Assist us?”
Exeter, I don’t think I can do this.

Actually, you have very little to do. America does the hard work.
His thoughts were labored, and still he found the strength to tease her—ease her worry. One wrong breath and he could die.
Mia, you can do this.
His whispered coax served to rally her nerves.

All right then, I’m no sissy-baby.
She unbuttoned the sleeves of her gown and rolled them back. “Exeter wants me to tell you that he is here with us.”

“Does anyone have a timepiece?” She glanced up at Phaeton, who shook his head.

One of their guards took out his pocket watch.

“I need to know how long each pain lasts as well as the elapsed time between her contractions—do you understand, Tweez?”

“Weez not dunces, miss-is—and the name’s Dee,” the creature harrumphed.

Mia’s gaze moved from Tweez to Dee. “Oh dear, you must stop moving about or I shall never manage to keep you apart.”

Mia nodded.
I padded a bench and there’s a clean sheet and pillows—it’s the best we can do.

Wash your hands well with soap and water.
Mia poured warm water into a hand basin and scrubbed the way she’d seen the doctor clean his hands a thousand times before. Over the next hour he kept her busy with preparations. It was if he wanted to fill her brain with chores, so that she wouldn’t have time to be fearful.

Periodically, Exeter would ask them to time a contraction. “How long?” Mia asked Dee.

“The pain lasted nearly one an’ thirty. With two and few between, miss-is.”

Mia relayed the times and waited for his reaction. There was a long pause.
What is it?

She is already in the active labor.
As he thought the words, she sensed curiosity in his tone.
Ask her how long she has been feeling these pains.

It took Mia a while to drag it out of her, but America finally admitted she had felt twinges early in the afternoon.
Good Christ. Mia, you’ll need to have a look at her cervix.

“I wanted to help find Phaeton. If I had said anything . . .” America’s lower lip formed a pout. “There would have been a change in plans.”

She was right, of course. And she would have been better off right now—they all would, Phaeton being the exception. Exeter would have remained at the hotel—to attend her. He wouldn’t be buried under a pile of rubble, near death.

Mia shot a warning glance at Phaeton, and shook her head. “Yes, well, we must all make the best of it now.” She followed Exeter’s every instruction to the letter, and he kept them coming nonstop. Occasionally, she allowed herself a moment to marvel. The way a woman’s body was so splendidly made for birthing. And how resilient America was, as well as brave.

I believe we can manage that.
The bench America lay on was crude—but as wide as a cot.

Mia looked up at Phaeton, who was doing rather well for a first-time father. He sat in his cell, with his arms extended through the bars. At the start of a contraction he helped America sit up and crooned sweet words, encouraging her to push. Between pains, he rubbed her shoulders.

America’s limbs began to tremble—so much so, Mia had to hold onto her feet.

“Is that normal?” From out of the blue, a bit of panic appeared to grip Phaeton. “Honey, I’m not sure I’m cut out for—”

“There now, America.” Mia interrupted Phaeton’s moment of weakness. Wiping the brow of the mother, she turned to the expectant father. “Phaeton, the leg trembling is nothing to worry over.” Mia leaned closer to the cell bars and whispered. “Exeter insists that you not fret out loud—worries the mother.”

More than a bit dazed, Phaeton nodded. “Sorry.”

She wiped the perspiration off his brow with a cool cloth. “You’re both doing wonderfully well—chin up.” Mia winked at him.

“Ready to be a papa, Papa?” America smiled at Phaeton and he brought her hand to his lips. Mia smiled at the sight of Phaeton speechless, in awe of America, worried about their circumstances. He was going to be a wonderful father—protective, caring—who would have guessed?

She estimated the cervix opening for Exeter.

The baby is coming fast for a first child—be sure to keep massaging her perineum—we are going to try for no tearing, which means we will bring the baby out gently.
And as if his comment wasn’t worrisome enough, Exeter let loose a litany of do not’s:

Exeter even had an order for America, which Mia passed along to the young mother: “DO NOT push between contractions.”

She breathed a sigh of relief when the head crowned during a contraction. Mia and Phaeton encouraged America to push.
Have her take a deep breath, hold it, and push for a count of ten.