Chapter Thirty-seven
London, 1869—At Home
Winston awoke in the dead of night, knowing immediately that something was wrong. Lying on the big bed he and Poppy had recently purchased for their new home, he focused on the plaster and wood-beamed ceiling above him before taking stock of his surroundings. All was quiet, the room warm from the late spring weather. Why then did his heart race? And then it hit him—Poppy was not beside him. He lurched up and looked around for her. The ghostly blue light of the moon reduced the bedroom to an array of sharp angles and shapeless lumps. Still no Poppy.
Finding his smalls, he slid them on and left the room. Years of avoiding his father’s notice gave him the ability to negotiate the narrow stairs that led from the bedroom down to the main flat without a sound. His skin was too tight, twitchy with anxiety that he could not name, and as he descended, so did the temperature. The slight chill that first greeted his feet, then his bare torso gave him pause, but he supposed it was to be expected—the bedroom was always warmer than the rest of the house. Even so, the cool air rushing through his lungs as he breathed felt odd.
Ahead of him, past the dark hall, toward the kitchen, a soft light glowed. For reasons he couldn’t name, Win held his tongue and did not call out for Poppy. His heartbeat was a hard rhythm against his throat as he crept toward the door and moved into the kitchen.
There, hunched over the table, was Poppy, her vibrant hair gleaming copper in the light of a single taper. The air here was cooler still, and sharp with silence and tension. She hadn’t heard him and he couldn’t make himself speak. Inexplicably, he felt as if he were trespassing on her privacy. She appeared to be fiddling with something, the line of her shoulders drawn tight even as she moved. But then she stopped, and her shoulders began to shake. The movement snapped Win out of whatever spell that had hold of him, and he stepped farther into the room.
“Poppy?”
She whipped around, her eyes wide in her pale face. “Win.”
He smiled. “Were you expecting someone else?” he teased. His smile faltered when she merely gaped at him, and again came the odd feeling that danger lurked. “What are you doing up, love?”
“I…” She said nothing more, but he’d stopped listening at any rate, for he spied the blood-covered rag that lay in her lap.
“You’re hurt!” His bare feet slapped over the icy floor, and he was kneeling before her in the next breath.
“Win.” Her voice was a rasp. And her hands were so very cold when he closed his own over hers. She winced, and he looked down. A deep gash marred her inner forearm. Cursing softly, he picked up the rag and pressed it back over the wound.
“What happened?” he whispered as gently as he could, for the sight of her bleeding left him inexplicably angry. “And why didn’t you wake me?”
Poppy was silent for a moment, then she leaned into him. Fell into him, rather, which alarmed him more than anything. Instantly he wrapped his arms around her and held on tight.
“Poppy,” he said against her hair. “Tell me what makes you tremble.”
Her broken voice was half-lost against his skin. “I…” She took a breath and calmed a bit. “I had a nightmare.”
“Sweeting.” He stroked her hair. “About what?”
Her slender throat moved with a swallow. “A monster was hunting me.” So quietly she spoke that he had to strain to hear her. “He almost had me, but then I… I defeated him, Win.” She shook violently, and her good arm slung around his neck. “I defeated him. I did it.”
The relief and joy in her voice was so strong that it almost sounded as though she thought the dream real. He knew of such dreams. They lingered in the flesh and shook one’s soul.
“Of course you did, my brave love,” he said. “I never doubted you for a moment.”
She made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob and squeezed him tighter. Cooing under his breath, he rose and then, with a bit of shifting, settled on the kitchen bench and settled her upon his lap. Gently, he brushed a long lock of scarlet hair away from her face. “Why did you not wake me?”
Her lids lowered as if she couldn’t quite face him. “I did not want to bother you.”
Win cupped her cheek and made her look at him. “You will never be a bother to me, Boadicea.” His thumb stroked her skin. “You can tell me anything. You know that, don’t you?”
She grimaced, and he understood; his Poppy had always been self-sufficient. To the point of stubbornness. Letting her have a moment, he lifted her wounded arm and tended to it. “How did you hurt yourself?”
She tensed again and cleared her throat. “I came down for some tea and grew hungry.” A small sound of derision left her. “I suppose the dream still had me, for in my clumsiness, I let the bread knife get the upper hand.”
“Poor girl,” he murmured, and they shared a smile. Poppy was grace in motion yet oddly clumsy. From time to time, she’d appear with the worst bruises, the result of walking into table corners or some similar accident.
Winston held her close and cleaned her up, quietly talking nonsense until she settled. Then he took her up to bed and tucked her in. It wasn’t until much later that he realized there hadn’t been any food on the table, nor a bread knife.