Chime

I had all sorts of deep, meaningful questions to put to him, things to tell him, but I couldn’t think what they were.

“I’m also supposed to tell you that talking might overtire you.”

“This is Briony, remember? Since when did talking ever tire her!”

Eldric sounded more like himself when he laughed.

“I’ll be listening,” I said, “even if I close my eyes. Talk to me. Tell me what you’ve been doing while I’ve been ill.”

“I’ve been right here.”

I closed my eyes. “Tell me about the harvest festival.”

“I didn’t go,” said Eldric. “I’ve been right here.”

That was interesting.

“Tell me about the hayride.” I’d had visions of Eldric and Leanne on the hayride. Drinking from the same thermos; sharing a blanket; and when their fellow hay-riders left, lingering, perhaps, in the hay—

“I’ll go next year,” he said.

“What about Mr. Thorpe?”

“Boring,” said Eldric.

My lips were too tired to smile. “But lessons?”

“I couldn’t have lessons when you were so ill. When we thought you might die!”

No lessons with Leanne!

“Any excuse to avoid lessons,” I said.

But Eldric didn’t answer. All he could do was clear his throat.

It may have been hours later or days later when I asked about my hand. Everything is confused when you’re ill.

“You can still feel a hand, can’t you, even if it’s been torn off?”

I realize now how hideous the question must have sounded. But I didn’t mean it that way. It was simply that I knew that people who’ve lost a bit of themselves (let’s say it’s a hand) report that they still feel it. They don’t really, of course, because the hand is miles away, in the swamp. But their brain thinks they feel it. I know because I read this in the London Loudmouth.

I’d never seen Father and Eldric so flustered. They rushed to assure me that my hand was still attached to my wrist. They interrupted and spoke over each other, which was not like either of them, but their meaning was clear. My hand was badly injured—injured, yes, it was injured—

They were trying to avoid words like mangled. I could tell. No wonder my arm was so heavy. It had been plastered up, like something in a Poe story. Dr. Rannigan set the bones as best he could.

“How many bones did he set?” I cared about it much less than they did. It’s my Florence Nightingale calm, I suppose.

There was a pause.

“Twenty-seven,” said Father.

There was a question mark in that pause. “How many bones are in a hand?”

Another pause.

“Twenty-seven,” said Eldric.

“What on earth were you doing?” Eldric asked, the next time we were alone.

“Doing?”

“You left the knife beside the bog-hole,” said Eldric. “After I’d got you home and cleaned up a bit, we saw the cuts.”

The cuts? Of course, the knife, and my mushroom skin, and spilling blood for the Boggy Mun. How long ago that had been.

“How did you find me?”

“Don’t try to sidetrack me,” said Eldric. “What were you doing?”

“But really,” I said. “How?”

“I can always find you,” said Eldric. “Don’t ever think you can hide from me. Now—”

“You have to tell me first,” I said. “Because I’m sick.”

“Oh Lord,” said Eldric, but he laughed. “It was brought forcibly to our attention that you’d left the Parsonage when your father found he had something more to say to you. My manly intuition told me to look in the swamp. You weren’t on the Flats, I found the knife in the Quicks—” He turned away, sat on the end of the bed. Up I went.

“You found me in the Slough?”

A pause; Eldric cleared his throat. “And I’d had the good sense to bring a Bible Ball. What were you thinking? Or not thinking?”

“I wasn’t not thinking anything,” I said. “What did Father want to talk to me about?”

“You’ll have to ask him.”

“He’ll never tell me now,” I said. “It was just the energy of the moment when he thought—well, you know.”

“You are not a comfortable girl to be with,” said Eldric.

“I shall persist in being uncomfortable until you tell me.”

“You’re going to be sorry,” said Eldric.

“I shan’t.”

I could feel Eldric shrug. “It had to do with the Well, you know part of it, with his assumption I’d lured you into the swamp to—well, not to put too fine a point on it—to seduce you. And then it occurred to him to wonder whether you actually knew what a seduction involves. The details, I mean.”

I spread my wicked left hand over my face, but surely slices of crimson tide showed between my fingers. “You’re right,” I said.

“That you’re sorry?”

“That I’m sorry.”

“What shall I tell your father?” said Eldric.

“Don’t tell him anything!”

“You teased it out of me,” said Eldric. “You ought to answer. It has your father worried, actually.”

“Tell him I read a lot.” I could almost hear the curling lion’s smile in Eldric’s voice.

“Very well. Now will you answer my question? Tell me what you were doing in the Quicks, with that knife.”

But I couldn’t tell him. “It’s unfair, I know, but—”

“You can’t tell me, of course.” My end of the bed went down. Eldric stood beside me. He pulled my hand from my face.

“I have a request.” Eldric rolled back his shirtsleeve, offered me his forearm. “The next time you need to make a blood offering, please ask me for a contribution.”

I stared at his forearm, bulging with bad-boy veins.

“It’s as red as yours,” he said. “I promise.”

I nodded.

“I know you won’t, though,” said Eldric. “Because despite being Fraters—”

“Frateri,” I said.

“Frateri, you still keep everything to yourself and don’t ask for help. The blood offering, the pumping station —tell me this, at least: Are the two connected?”

A gulp of silence hung between us.

“I have the advantage,” said Eldric, “of being able to wear you down. You have the disadvantage of being wearable and of not being able to leave. I shall keep at it until you tell me.”

I nodded.

“Are you telling me they’re related?”

I nodded.