William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

have belittled yourself.”
    He stared at her, confusion filling his face, and surprise. Whatever he had expected of her it was not that.
    She was too repelled and too aware of Sylvestra’s grief to guard her words. She felt a kind of horror she had never known before, a mixture of pity and fear and a sense of something so dark she could not even stumble towards it in imagination.
    “That was a cruel and pointless thing to do,” she went on. “I’m disgusted with you!”
    Anger blazed in his eyes, and the smile came back to his mouth, still twisted, as if in self-mockery.
    She turned away.
    She heard him bang his hand on the sheet. It must have hurt; it would jar the broken bones even further. It was his only way of attracting attention, unless he knocked the bell off, and when he did that others might hear, especially Sylvestra if she had not yet gone downstairs.
    She turned back.
    He was trying desperately to speak. His head jerked, his lips moved and his throat convulsed as he fought to make a sound. Nothing came, only a gasping for breath as he choked and gagged and then choked again.
    She went to him and put her arm around him, lifting him a little so he could breathe more easily.
    “Stop it!” she ordered. “Stop it! That won’t help you to speak. Just breathe slowly. In … out. In … out. That’s better. Again. Slowly.” She sat holding him up until his breathing was regular, under control, then she let him lie back on the pillows. She regarded him dispassionately, until she saw the tears on his cheeks and the despair in his eyes. He seemed oblivious of his hands, lying on the cover with the splints broken and crooked, carrying the bones awry. It must have been agonizing, and yet the pain of emotion inside him was so much greater he seemed to not even feel the pain in his hands.
    What in God’s name had happened to him in St. Giles? What memory tore inside him with such unbearable horror?
    “I’ll rebandage your hands,” she said more gently. “You can’t leave them like that. The bones may even have been moved.”
    He blinked, but made no move of disagreement.
    “It’s going to hurt,” she warned.
    He smiled and made a little snort, letting out his breath sharply.
    It took her nearly three quarters of an hour to take the bandages off both hands, examine the broken fingers and the bruised and swollen flesh, lacerated across the knuckles, realign the bones, all the time aware of the hideous pain it must be causing him, and then resplint and rebandage his hands. It was really a surgeon’s job, and perhaps Corriden Wade wouldbe angry with her for doing it herself, instead of calling him, but he was due to come tomorrow, and she was perfectly capable. She had certainly set enough bones before. She could not leave Rhys like that while she sent a messenger out to Wade’s house to look for him. At this time he might very well be out at dinner, or even the theater.
    Afterwards Rhys was exhausted. His face was gray with pain and his clothes were soaked with sweat.
    “I’ll change the bed,” she said matter-of-factly. “You can’t sleep in that. Then I’ll get you a draft to ease the pain of it and help you to rest. Maybe you’ll think twice before hitting anyone again?”
    He bit his lip and stared at her. He looked rueful, but it was far less than an apology. It was too complicated to express without words, perhaps even with them.
    She helped him to the far side of the bed, half supporting his weight; he was dizzy and weak with pain. She eased him down. She took off the rumpled sheets, marked with spots of blood, and put on clean ones. Then she helped him change into a fresh nightshirt and held him steady while he half rolled back to the center of the bed and she straightened the covers over him.
    “I’ll be back in a few moments with the draft for pain,” she told him. “Don’t move until I return.”
    He nodded obediently.
    It took her nearly a quarter of an hour to mix up the strongest dose she dared give him from Dr. Wade’s medicine. It should be enough to help him sleep at least half of the night. Anything strong enough to deaden the pain of his hands might kill him. It was the best she could do. She offered it to him and held it while he drank.
    He made a face.
    “I know it’s bitter,” she agreed. “I brought a little peppermint to take the taste away.”
    He looked at her gravely, then very slowly he smiled. It was thanks; there was nothing else in it, no cruelty,