They’d moved him at some point to a hospital in England. He remembered a kindly old nurse who held his hand and sang songs about summer and daffodils. He remembered his promise to Crewe.Find Analise. Become her guardian. Protect her. See her future secured.Poor Crewe. Anger and sadness choked him. His friend was dead, leaving behind an orphaned daughter. It was the weight of this promise that had finally forced his spirit back into his body. He couldn’t die here. He must fulfill his promise.
“How are we feeling today, Your Grace?” the kindly nurse asked, bustling into the room with her arms full of fresh bed linens and a smile on her age-lined face.
He grunted. How did she think he was feeling? His limbs wouldn’t yet fully obey his commands. One side of his face was a nightmarish crisscrossing of scars. It hurt too much to talk. But he was one of the lucky ones. He was alive when so many had died.
A physician had embroidered his face with a sharp needle and thick thread, stitching his wounds together. Now that they were healing into scars, his face throbbed, stung, and itched.
Whenever he attempted to speak, all that emerged was a harsh croaking sound. This time he was determined to force words from his lips. “Nurse,” he began in a guttural whisper. “There were... letters in my coat.”
“Got your voice back? How wonderful. Don’t fret. We have your letters safe and sound. I’m glad you’re feeling well enough to read them. I’ll fetch them for you.” She placed the folded linens on a chair and bustled from the room.
Dex struggled to a seated position and painstakingly slid his legs off the bed, cursing his weakened state. Bracing his hands on the bed frame, he attempted to stand, only to thud back down, his entire body screaming in protest.
“Damn!” He gritted his teeth and tried again.
“Your Grace!” The nurse rushed into the room. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To the gardens. I want air.”
“At least let me help you.” She lifted one of his arms and draped it over her sturdy shoulders. “One... two...”
“I don’t require help—” Dex’s knees buckled and he stopped talking, leaning on the nurse.
“Slowly now, Your Grace. One step at a time. We can always go back to the bed.”
“Not... going... back to bed.” Too much time had already been wasted. Months. He must find Crewe’s daughter.
The nurse helped him outside and down a pathway to a small, walled garden. She settled him on a stone bench beneath an oak tree. Removing the packet of letters from her apron pocket, she handed it to him. “I’ll bring you some tea, Your Grace.”
She left him alone. The sunlight on his face was like a language he’d known in childhood but no longer spoke. A robin hopped over the grass, its shrill voice mocking him. The flowers planted along the garden walk were like splotches of mold, the bright colors assaulting his eyes.
He unknotted the green silk ribbon tied around the letters. Bloodstained silk for his bloodstained mind.
The address on the letters was from Miss Pincheon’s Finishing School for Young Ladies in London. He’d dispatch a representativeto the school immediately to relay her father’s last wishes to Miss Crewe and pay her tuition fees.
He lifted the topmost letter.
Dearest Papa,
I do wish that horrid despot Bonaparte would decide to take up goat farming instead of running around attempting to conquer the world. I search the papers every day for news of your company. I want to understand your trials, the dark and dangerous times, even though your letters are full of bravery and good humor.
Miss Pincheon doesn’t much care for me. She says I put on Airs and Graces and fears that I have been dreadfully spoiled, being a motherless child with a doting father. She says I am a right impudent spitfire of a hellion. Perhaps it is so but, oh, Papa! I try so hard to be good, to do you credit, but I find lessons in etiquette and decorum to be tedious in the extreme. I long for the day when you are returned to me and I might leave this dreary institution.
We shall set up house in London, with an elegant equipage, and you shall take me riding on Rotten Row and I shall be shown to advantage in my riding habit. We shall attend balls and drink champagne and dance until our feet ache. You will glare most forbiddingly at my suitors, making them tremble in their polished boots. And when I find my true love, we shall live merrily ever after, we three... and the large, happy family that comes along.
I find my lessons so tiresome that I’ve taken to composing fantastical tales as a means of escape. I intend to finish an entire novel! Writing my tale of princesses, dragons, and Destiny is everso much more diverting than embroidering Proverbs. I’ve enclosed the first chapter and I hope it will help you wile away some of the long, dreary nights until we are reunited.
I miss you dreadfully . . .
Your loving daughter,
Analise
The words blurred on the page. All that youthful exuberance and optimism extinguished. Miss Crewe’s father had never returned to her.
His fault.
He turned the page and found the first chapter of her novel in progress.The Dragon and the Blue Starwas the fanciful title.