#DailyLines #MOBY #WRITTENInMYOwnHEARTSBlood #Book8 #OutJUNE10th #preppingforsurgery I wasn’t going to faint. Or at least I hoped not. But I was trapped there in that close, hot room, smelling blood and tar and the scent of myrrh in the laudanum, feeling Tench’s agony. And I could _not_ do that. I couldn’t, I mustn’t. Peggy hurried in, a maid-servant behind her, several large knives clutched to her bosom. “Will one of these do?” She laid them in a clinking heap at the foot of the bed, then stood back, gazing anxiously at her cousin’s pale, slack face. “I’m sure one will.” I stirred the heap gingerly, extracting a couple of possibilities: a carving knife that looked sharp, and a big, heavy knife of the sort used for chopping vegetables. And, with a vivid recollection of the snap of severed tendons, a paring knife with a freshly-sharpened, silvered edge. “Boiling water?” I asked, brows raised. “Chrissy is bringing it,” Peggy assured me. She licked her lips, uneasy. “Do you—mmm.” She broke off, narrowly avoiding saying what she so plainly thought: ‘_Do you know what you’re doing_?” I did. That was the trouble.
Posted on: Sun, 19 Jan 2014 11:15:39 +0000
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