//CLARA//
Dr. Varga worked with efficiency. By the time he stepped back, Gary looked less like a human and more like a poorly wrapped mummy swaddled for burial.
White linen bound his torso, his left arm splinted to his chest. Bandages covered half his face, leaving one swollen eye visible, the other hidden beneath a poultice smelling of comfrey.
I sat in the chair by his bedside, watching the shallow movement of his ribs, willing strength into him through sheer stubbornness. Dr. Varga left bottles of laudanum and instructions.
Casimir had hovered in the doorway. When the doctor left, so did he.
The night deepened. I should have moved, found fresh clothes, checked on Hattie. But exhaustion had turned my body to stone.
I don't remember closing my eyes. I only knew I was falling—adrift in darkness that smelled of damp stone and iron.
Then hands caught me, lifting me from the chair. I stirred, pressing my face into the heat of a body I knew better than my own.
