Devil in Spring

Gabriel sat on the bedside chair and carefully took her hand. Her fingers were light and loose, as if he were holding a little bundle of wood spills.

“I’ll leave you to spend a few minutes alone with her,” Dr. Gibson said from the doorway. “Then, if you wouldn’t mind, I’ll let the family members see her briefly, so we can send them all home. If you wish, you can sleep tonight in a spare bedroom at the Winterbornes’ residence—”

“No, I’ll stay here.”

“We’ll bring in a moveable cot, then.”

Curling Pandora’s fingers around his, Gabriel pressed the backs of them to his cheek and held them there. Her familiar scent had been obliterated by a blank, sterile too-clean smell. The surface of her lips was rough and chapped. But her skin had lost the frightening chill, and her breathing was steady, and he was steeped in the relief of being able to sit there and touch her. He settled his free hand lightly on her head, his thumb stroking the silky verge of her hairline.

The crescents of her lashes fluttered, and she stirred. Slowly her face turned toward him. He looked into the midnight blue of her eyes, and was pierced with a tenderness so acute that it made him want to weep.

“There’s my girl,” he whispered. He reached for a chip of ice from the bowl and fed it to her. Pandora held it in her mouth, letting the liquid absorb into the dry inner tissues of her cheeks. “You’ll be all better soon,” he said. “Are you in pain, love?”

Pandora shook her head slightly, her gaze locking on his. A furrow of puzzled concern gathered on her forehead. “Mrs. Black . . .” she croaked.

His heart twisted in his chest like a scullery rag being wrung out. “Whatever she told you, Pandora, it wasn’t true.”

“I know.” She parted her lips, and he fished in the bowl for another ice chip. Sucking on the bit of ice, she waited until it had dissolved. “She said I bore you.”

Gabriel looked at her blankly. Of all the lunatic notions Nola could have come up with. . . . Burying his head in his arm, he gasped with amusement, his shoulders shaking. “I have not been bored,” he eventually managed to say, looking at her. “Not for one second since I first met you. In truth, love, after this I wouldn’t mind a few days of boredom.”

Pandora smiled slightly.

Unable to resist the temptation, Gabriel leaned forward and pressed a fleeting, dry kiss against her mouth. He glanced at the empty doorway first, of course, suspecting that if Dr. Gibson had seen him, she would have had his lips sterilized.

For the next two days, Pandora slept heavily, waking only for brief intervals and exhibiting little interest in her surroundings. Even though Dr. Gibson assured Gabriel the symptoms were common for a patient after undergoing anesthesia, it was unnerving to see his energetic young wife reduced to this condition.

Pandora showed glimmers of her usual liveliness only twice. The first time was when her cousin West came to sit by her bedside, having traveled by train from Hampshire. She had been delighted to see him and spent ten minutes trying to convince him that the lyrics to the song “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” included the phrases “gently down the string” and “life’s a butter dream.”

The second time was when Dragon had come to the doorway to look in on her, his usually stoic face drawn with concern, while Gabriel had fed her spoonfuls of fruit ice. Noticing the towering figure at the threshold, Pandora had exclaimed groggily, “It’s my watchdragon,” and had demanded that he come closer to show her his bandaged arm. Before he had even reached the bed, however, she had fallen back to sleep.

Gabriel stayed at her bedside every possible minute, occasionally retreating to the moveable cot near the window for brief periods of slumber. He knew that Pandora’s family members were eager to sit with her, and they probably found it annoying that he was so reluctant to leave the room and entrust her to anyone else. However, he stayed as much for his own sake as for hers. When he spent even a few minutes away from her, his anxiety kept doubling and redoubling until he expected to find her in the middle of a fatal hemorrhage by the time he returned.

He was perfectly aware that some of his anxiety derived from the ocean of guilt he was currently floundering in. It didn’t matter if someone pointed out the ways in which it was not his fault—he could easily come up with just as many reasons to the contrary. Pandora had needed protection, and he hadn’t provided it. Had he made different choices, she wouldn’t be in a hospital bed with a surgically divided artery and a three-inch hole in her shoulder.

Dr. Gibson came to examine Pandora frequently, checking for fever or signs of suppuration, looking for any swelling of the arm or in the area above the clavicle, listening for compression in the lungs. She said Pandora appeared to be healing well. Barring any problems, she would be able to resume her usual activities in two weeks. However, she would still need to be careful for a few months. A hard jolt, such as the impact from a fall, could conceivably cause an aneurysm or hemorrhage.

Months of worry. Months of trying to keep Pandora still and quiet and safe.

The prospect of all that lay ahead of them, and the nightmares that tormented him every time he tried to sleep, and most of all Pandora’s persistent confusion and lethargy, made him quiet and grim. Perversely, the kindness of friends and relations made him even surlier. Flower arrangements were a special irritant: they were delivered almost hourly at the clinic, where Dr. Gibson refused to allow them past the entrance lobby. They piled up in funereal abundance, making the air nauseatingly thick and sweet.