Where the Library Hides (Secrets of the Nile #2)

Capítulo Veintiuno

CAPíTULO VEINTIUNO

The door opened, and the physician walked out. He appeared calm and collected. His eyes were kind, and his clipped graying hair reminded me of marbled granite pillars. Two of his assistants followed, carrying bloody sheets.

I tried not to stare at the mess.

“Good evening, or is it afternoon?” the doctor asked, rubbing his tired eyes. “I am Dr. Neruzzos Bey.”

“How is he?” I asked, my throat tight. I could hardly speak.

The physician jerked his chin in the direction of the hotel room. “Are you related to this man?”

I shook my head, recalled a crucial piece of information, and corrected myself. “Yes, well, I’m his wife.”

“He’s as stable as I could make him,” he said. “The time spent on the boat and the jostling of the carriage did him no favors. But I managed to remove the shattered bullet. I believe I got all of it, but it’s hard to be sure. He has a fever, so I recommend cold compresses throughout the day and night. Try to give him water and make him as comfortable as you can. I’ll return tomorrow to check his progress.” He hesitated. “I’d prepare yourself. An abdominal gunshot wound is serious. Thankfully, there was no harm to his kidneys or appendix. I can’t say the same for a section of his intestines.”

Terror seized me. The whole time I had paced outside the hotel room, I reminded myself that Whit was strong, that he had survived battles and other wounds. I told myself that he would live. My hands shook violently.

“Shokran,” I murmured, my throat dry.

Dr. Neruzzos Bey nodded and brushed past. I stared at the closed door, my nerves shattered, worry pricking at my edges. I inhaled through my nose, trying to brace myself for the worst. After a moment, my heartbeat slowed to normal, and I straightened my shoulders as I opened the door and walked through.

Whit lay on the bed, his face turned toward me. A faint smile touched his lips. I walked three steps and dropped to my knees next to the bed. His eyes appeared sunken, and deep caverns had hollowed out his cheeks.

“How are you?” His voice was barely above a whisper, and I had to lean closer to hear him clearly. He looked at me wryly, as if he knew to suspect that his days were numbered.

“The doctor is incredibly competent and has given me a list of things to do to make you comfortable,” I said.

“That’s fine,” he said breathlessly. “But that doesn’t tell me how you are.”

“You’re the one who’s dy—ill. I should be asking you how you’re feeling,” I said through numb lips.

He seized on my misstep. “Dying? That sounds quite serious.”

I waved this off dismissively, and for a moment I was impressed by my ability to seem nonchalant, when my mind screamed with terror. His face had lost all color; his skin was clammy, beads of sweat lining his brow.

“Tell me the truth,” he said gently.

“I wouldn’t lie to you about this,” I whispered. “There was considerable blood loss, and infection has set in. You have a fever, and it might get worse before it gets better. Surviving tonight is critical. The physician is coming back tomorrow.”

My fingers itched to smooth the matted hair off his forehead. I fought the impulse with everything in me. A part of me wanted to hold on to my anger because I was terrified of feeling anything else for him. My rage didn’t scare me as much as my love for him did. But looking at him now, I realized that I was on the brink of losing him. Nothing else mattered except making sure he lived.

“He tried to draw some of my blood,” he said. “I wouldn’t let him.”

It was a tried tactic to dispel any sickened blood from the body, and it made me nauseous to think about. I started to protest, but Whit had closed his eyes, grimacing. The pain he must have been in.

“Will you have something to drink?”

He opened his eyes, which were bloodshot and exhausted and red rimmed. I made the decision for him and gave him a small cup of tepid water. He managed a few sips before dropping his head back onto the pillow with a groan. A moment later, he drifted to sleep. I pulled a chair closer to the bed and reached for his hand. It burned to the touch. For the next hour, I alternated between holding on to him and attempting to stave off the worst of his fever with cold compresses. He shifted, uncomfortable, sweating. The bedding became wrapped around his waist and legs, and I gave up straightening the sheet.

Horror gripped me as I listened to his strained breathing, shallow breaths that cost him. Every single one of them sounded like a pained gasp. I forced him to take a few sips of water through his cracked and dry lips at regular intervals. My palms turned wrinkly from the constant wringing of the damp cloth. Every time I applied it across his forehead, his chest, tension seeped out of him, and the tight lines fanning from the corners of his eyes smoothed away.

Time passed, but I was only aware of it because the staff would routinely knock on the door with fresh cloths, tea, and simple meals for me. My bones ached from sitting up for so long without food or sleep. I would have suffered much worse to never let go of his hand. His delirium persisted through the rest of the day and long into the night. Several times, he called my name. Lack of sleep made my head spin, but I answered every single time, my voice hoarse from my reassurances.

And then, shortly before the dawn of a new day, Whit’s eyes drifted open. He stared at me, squinting.

“I haven’t left you,” I whispered.

He nodded, relief softening the tight press of his mouth.

“You’re being ridiculous,” I said. “Get rid of this fever immediately and become well.”

Whit’s dry lips stretched into a smile, as I knew they would. “Where are your manners, Inez? Say please.”

“ Please .”

He turned his head toward mine. “You have bruises around your throat, and there are scratches on your cheeks.”

“Isadora fought like a cat,” I said.

“This is why I hate them.” Whit didn’t lose his faint but determined smile, and my heart flipped at the sight of it. “Dogs are wonderful, and humans don’t deserve them.”

“Stop talking and rest,” I said sternly.

“Too much to say,” Whit whispered. “I could murder the bastard.”

“Mr. Sterling?” I guessed.

“He just had to take all of the ink bottles, didn’t he?”

I blinked at him. Ink bottles? What ink— Oh! My cheeks burned. I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten. I looked around for the lone bottle I’d managed to shrink before Sterling had arrived. It was on the windowsill.

He followed my line of sight. “You’ve had the ink this whole time?” Whit asked, eyes wild. “All while that doctor pulled a bullet out of my stomach? Tried to drain me of my blood? Olivera, do you know that I have a fever ? You must really hate me.”

The words ripped out of me. “No, I don’t.”

They rang between us, and through the haze of his fever, he looked at me in surprise.

“I forgot all about it,” I said sheepishly, trying to move past the sudden awkward tension.

“All I need is a drop,” he said, panting. “Your mother would use the tiniest amount on any scrapes and cuts or insect bites.”

“Those are all minor wounds.” I stood and went to retrieve the bottle. I lifted it, examining the liquid closely. It looked like regular ink, deep black. “Will this work on you?”

He licked his lips. “Worth a try. May I have more water?”

I immediately fetched the glass and carefully lifted his head. He took two tiny sips and then shook his head. “No more.”

I eased his head back onto the pillow, my fingers brushing against the damp cotton. “Do I put it on the wound? Or do you swallow it?”

Whit twisted his lips in disgust. “It would taste foul. Pour it in the hole in my stomach.”

“What if it makes it worse?”

“Have a little faith in the magic, Olivera,” he said, gasping. “You can’t possibly make it worse.”

“That’s not true,” I said, but I carefully uncorked the bottle. Whit lifted the corner of his shirt, displaying a stretch of tanned, taut skin. The right side of his body had a bandage covering the wound. He lifted it, wincing, the muscles in his stomach flexing.

“Stay still,” I said. “This might sting a little.”

“Remember just a drop—”

I poured all the liquid directly into the inflamed, punctured skin. The severity of his wound terrified me, and I didn’t think so small of an amount would do the job properly.

“— Goddamn it! ” Whit hissed through his teeth.

I placed the bottle on the nightstand. “Do you want to be distracted?”

“I’m not a child,” he said panting. But then his lips twisted wryly. “Yes, please.”

One question burned in my mind. While I had stared at him through the night, one word flickered persistently. “Why?”

Realization moved across his wan features. He understood what I wanted to know. “Of all the questions you could ask me, that’s the one you picked?” Whit asked, his voice threadbare. “Do I really have to answer that?”

I thought about it. “Yes.”

Whit stared at me. He licked his dry, cracked lips again and asked, “I said it to you earlier. Will you believe me if I say it again?”

“Tell me,” I said, afraid to hope, afraid to open the door to let him back in. He had left me with nothing. Taken away every wish for a family with him. I was scared to believe him, but I desperately wanted to.

“Inez,” he whispered. “You want to know why I saved your life? I can think of no better act to show how much I love you. This world would not be the same without you in it, and I don’t ever want to find out what that feels like. If I have to follow you across a desert, I will. If I have to jump into the Nile, again and again, I will. If I have to leap in front of a thousand bullets, I will.” He closed his eyes, breath shuddering. “I will always love you.”

“You love me,” I repeated.

Some of the color returned to his pale cheeks. A deep flush of health and vitality. Slowly, he opened his eyes, and they pierced through flesh and bone, finding the heart of me. They were still bloodshot, red rimmed, and weary. But they did not waver from my own.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m yours.”

I swallowed hard, fear taking a firm hold of me. I wanted to trust him, but would I be able to?

“I have been for a long time,” Whit added softly. Very slowly, he reached across the bedding, fingers stretching to find mine. He flipped his wrist, palm open. I stared at the rough callouses. At his blunt hands capable of death, of rescue. Hands that held mine, that pulled me across a dance floor, held me above water, comforted me in the darkness of a tomb.

Right then, I gave in to what I had wanted to do since I’d seen him lying in that bed, the fever raging war against him. I leaned forward and kissed his cheek, smoothing the hair off his forehead. When I straightened, his eyes had once again drifted closed, the smallest smile on his face.