#DailyLines #MOBY #WrittenINMyOWNHeartsBLOOD #Book8 #OutJUNE10th #BreathlessInPhiladelphia “Where _is_ my nephew?” Hal asked, finally able to take note of something other than his next breath. “For that matter…where is my brother?” “I don’t know,” I told him, putting my own glass on Mrs. Figg’s tray and scooping his up to add to it. “I really wasn’t lying about that. But I do expect he’ll be back soon.” I rubbed a hand over my face and smoothed my hair back as well as I could. First things first. I had a patient to tend. “I’m sure John wants to see you as much as you want to see him. But—“ “Oh, I doubt it,” the duke said. His eyes traveled slowly over me, from bare feet to disheveled hair, and the faint look of amusement on his face deepened. “You must tell me how John…happened to marry you…when there’s time.” “A counsel of desperation,” I said shortly. “But in the meantime, we must get you to bed. Mrs. Figg, is the back bedroom—“ “Thank you, Mrs. Figg,” the duke interrupted, “I shan’t be…requiring…” He was trying to struggle up out of the chair, and hadn’t enough breath to talk. I walked up to him and gave him my best piercing Head Matron look. “Harold,” I said, in measured tones. “I am not merely your sister-in-law.” The term gave me an odd _frisson_, but I ignored it. “I am your physician. If you don’t—what?” I demanded. He was staring up at me with a most peculiar expression on his face, something between surprise and amusement. “You invited me to use your Christian name, didn’t you?” “I did,” he admitted. “But I don’t think anyone has…actually called me Harold since…I was three years old.” He did smile, then, a charming smile quite his own. “The family call me Hal.” “Hal, then,” I said, smiling back, but refusing to be distracted. “You’re going to have a nice, refreshing sponge-bath, Hal, and then you’re going to bed.” He laughed—though he cut it short, as he began to wheeze. He coughed a little, fist balled under his ribs, and looked uneasy, but it stopped and he cleared his throat and looked up at me. “You’d think I _was_…three years old. Sister-in-law. Trying to send me…to bed without my tea?” He pushed himself gingerly upright, getting his feet under him. I put a hand on his chest and pushed. He hadn’t any strength in his legs, and fell back into the chair, astonished and affronted. And afraid—he hadn’t realized—or at least had not admitted--his own weakness.
Posted on: Sat, 15 Feb 2014 10:59:14 +0000
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