Part XI: Recovery

The sound of turning pages welcomed Haddock back to consciousness.  He was lying in a bed, a very comfortable bed.  He wearily opened eyes that felt like they had been glued shut.  The room was a familiar one.  So they had made it to the hunting lodge after all.  Orange autumn light was fading away through the window, striking dust moats that lazily floated through the air as dusk descended.  A few small candles provided meagre illumination in the mahogany-tinted room.  He couldn’t see who else was in there with him.  Slowly, so not as to disturb whoever was reading, he moved his arm to probe his chest for the wound.  His fingers rubbed across a bandaged tender spot, causing him to make a pained noise in the back of his throat.  The reader set the book down and hustled over to his bedside with a swish of fabric.  Miss Marlowe’s face fell into the candle’s halo of light.  Haddock had expected to see no one else’s face but hers.  The thought made him curious, but he dismissed it.

              “You’re awake,” she said with a smile and an overwhelming sense of relief.  She looked like she hadn’t slept.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he croaked.  Working his dormant tongue caused him to taste old blood in his throat.  He made a face.  Miss Marlowe poured him a glass of water from a jug on the nightstand and administered it to him like he was a small child.  He would have taken the glass from her if his arms didn’t feel like lead.

              “I told my family that your mother wanted me to spend a month at the Estate, and I told your mother that I had to leave town for a family tragedy,” Miss Marlowe said simply, placing the glass back on the stand.  Haddock leaned his head against the pillow and closed his eyes. 

              “Lies within lies will only get you into more trouble.”

“You’re one to talk,” Miss Marlowe replied with a sniff.  Haddock was too drained and weak to engage in a verbal battle right now.  The sounds of a swishing dress drew away from the bed.

This was followed by the sound of a chair being dragged to the bed and subsequently occupied.  Nails thrumming on a book cover.

              “I made a deal with Evans after he pulled that bullet out of you.  I told him that we could take turns looking after you so that he wouldn’t be worn ragged.  He quite liked the idea, which is why he helped me to fabricate the stories sent to my family and your mother.  He’s resting right now—he stayed up most of yesterday as your personal nursemaid.  You should thank him when he returns, Mr. Haddock.  You owe him your life.”

              Haddock almost said, “It’s not the first time,” but held his tongue.  Miss Marlowe was putting on an air of indifference to hide the worry she was unconsciously projecting.  He didn’t need to alarm her about his past injuries.  Instead, he asked:

              “How long have I been, um…?”

“You’ve been delirious for two days, talking nonsense when you’ve been intelligible enough to string together words…”

              The thrumming stopped.

“Do you want me to tell you what you said?” she queried, a smile in her voice. “Oh, I’ll just tell you anyways.  For one, the way you called my name incessantly shed some light on your true feelings about me—"

Haddock’s eyes popped open as he snapped his head in Miss Marlowe’s direction.  Miss Marlowe laughed.

              “I’m only teasing you, Mr. Haddock!”

Haddock glared at her.  It was a half-hearted glare that fell away into an easy smile.  Miss Marlow’s laughing subsided.  She quirked a brow at him.

“Is there something on my face, Mr. Haddock?”

“What?”

              “You’re staring, and it’s making me feel very self-conscious.”

Haddock twisted his head back so that he was looking up at the ceiling once more.

              “No—no.  Your face is…fine.  It’s fine.”

He needed to change the subject quickly or he’d start finding it difficult to talk to her.

              “What happened to Sir Drexel?” he asked.

“You nicked him in the arm and he cried like a baby.”

              Haddock snorted.

“No, really.  What happened to him?”

              “I just told you, but if you’re referring to what he did afterwards, he holed himself up in his townhouse and hasn’t left it since.  He’s recovering, like you.”

“He’s licking his wounds and plotting,” Haddock said flatly. “If I had just aimed a few more inches to the right…”

Haddock counted knotholes in the beam over his head, thinking.

“What day is it, Miss Marlowe?”

“Saturday, but you slept through most of it.”

              “The next full moon is this Friday,” Haddock mused.

“What are you thinking?” Miss Marlowe asked suspiciously.  Haddock turned his head to look her full in the face.

              “He’s injured but not too grievously that he wouldn’t pass up a chance to go hunting during a full moon…He wouldn’t expect someone to be hunting him—”
              “And that’s going to be you, is it?  Mr. Haddock, I hope you realize you lost a significant amount of blood in your previous attempt at murdering each other.  You need to be resting, not thinking about going for a second round,” she said authoritatively. “I’d like to see you try to get up and walk around after lying about like a cor—”

              Miss Marlowe bit her lip.  Lying about like a corpse?  She shifted in her seat to hide her discomfort.

“The werewolf constitution helps the healing,” Haddock said.  That was half true. “And I’ll actually be the bait.  Evans will be lying downwind to shoot him with a silver bullet.”

              “But you’re still fighting him.”

“Yes—”

“Is Evans privy of his role in your scheme?”

“Not yet—”

              “Is this how you treat your friends, Mr. Haddock?  Volunteering them for possibly-fatal exploits?”

              Haddock turned his head, facing the window.  That was a low blow.  The sun sank lower, bathing the room in blue shadows.  Haddock heard a chorus of crickets begin chirruping from beneath the windowsill.

              “Do you know how to shoot a pistol, Miss Marlowe?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

              “Do you know how to shoot a pistol?”

“…No.”

              “I’ll teach you.”

Miss Marlowe ruffled visibly.

“I—you can’t just—how dare you assume—!  You’re an idiot if you think you can attempt two fights in a row!” she snapped, and got up and crossed to the window before Haddock could respond.  Haddock’s thoughts fell inward.  He began to see how much the duel and him getting shot had thoroughly rattled Miss Marlowe.  There was a sort of hysterical edge to her that he hadn’t seen before, one that felt if she was pushed too far, she would be liable to completely break down.  An uncomfortable, sickly sensation susurrated in Haddock’s chest.  Guilt.  He’d ignored her pleadings and strong repulsion towards the duel just so that he could feel the satisfaction of dropping Sir Drexel.  The ghostly image of Florence fluttered forth from the back of his mind where he’d locked away his deep regrets.  No, not again.  He barricaded her away.

              “Miss Marlowe?”

The woman turned so that the sinking sunlight limned her in a white glow, throwing her face in complete shadow.

              “Yes?” Wary.

“Sir Drexel’s comeuppance can wait.”

              The silhouette shifted.

“Are you being sincere, Mr. Haddock?”

              “Quite.”

There was a brief pause.

“It’s nice to know you’re being sensible for once.”