WHEN CARINA WENT INTO the treatment room she breathed the scent of arnica and rosemary. The room was warmer than the rest of the house, and she noted the coal burning steadily in the brazier. Quillan slept, peaceful now after his thrashing—what thrashing he could do last night, tied to the bed, chest and head. But Papa told her he had wakened.
The restraints were removed now. Papa must believe the worst was past. She dropped down beside Quillan. She had left him only when the sweat poured from his skin, cooling the fever and ending his delirious rantings. Papa had promised it was a good thing and that Quillan would be stronger by morning. He looked stronger, and praise be to God, he felt warm, not fiery. It was a miracle.
Five days of burning fever. Papa had grown silent and grim as Quillan’s delirium worsened. But when it gave way to drenching sweat, Papa seemed satisfied, though to her eye, Quillan had looked the worst yet.
This morning, though, he seemed fresh and restful. What a change had occurred between the time Papa ordered her to bed and now!
She looked at the face of her husband, smelled laudanum on his breath. His sleep was drugged, then, but Papa knew what he was doing. His chin was covered in beard, the mustache grown over his upper lip. His whiskers ranged down his neck in a W shape. She touched his face, smoothed back his hair, and stroked her fingers through it. If he awoke it would be to a loving touch, but he didn’t. His hair was damp and clumped. Though they had bathed his skin throughout the fevered days, no one had washed his hair.
She stood, filled a pitcher from the pot of water on the warming surface over the brazier, and took from the cabinet a shallow dish shaped like a large shaving bowl with an indentation in the side. She set them and a small jar of hair soap on the table beside the bed. Gently raising Quillan’s head, she put the shallow pan beneath him, resting his neck in the hollow of its side and laying his hair down in the bowl. Then she slowly poured the warmed water over his hair, starting at the front of his scalp.
“I said no!” He jerked, and she nearly dropped the pitcher.
“Easy now or you’ll soak yourself.” Carina poured half of the pitcher over his hair and set it down.
“Carina?” He opened his eyes, then closed them again, breathing thickly. “If it’s not really you . . .”
Heart rushing with love and relief, she bent and kissed his mouth. “Who do you think it is? My papa?”
He scowled, drawing his face into a tight mass, and his eyes opened stormily.
Grazie, Dio! If he could be so angry, he must be getting strong! “What’s the matter?” She dipped her fingers into the jar of soap.
“What’s the matter? I have to lie like a baby while your father . . .”
She worked the lather into his hair, scrubbing with her fingers.
“While Papa what?”
He clamped his mouth shut, seemingly torn between anger and the irresistible comfort of her fingers on his scalp. She balled and lathered his hair, working out the snarls, the sweat, the last of the blood and dirt, then poured the rest of the water from the pitcher to rinse it. He sighed softly as she wrung his hair and wrapped it in a towel. Then she slid the bowl out and set it aside.
She smiled at the begrudged loosening of his face. Suddenly overwhelmed that he was truly awake and speaking to her, she kissed his damp forehead. “Caro mio, I was so afraid.”
His face contorted, his mouth working before any words came out. Then he sucked in a breath and said, “Carina, what’s wrong with me?
Am I paralyzed? Why can’t I move anything?”
She stared into his face. “Paralyzed? No. Immobilized.”
“Why? Why am I strapped down like an animal?”
She saw the same fear he’d betrayed in the cave. He could not stand to be trapped. Panic shot through his eyes like flashes of heat lightning. “Pace, caro. Peace.” She stroked his hair back. “You’re no longer tied. That was to keep you still while you raved. To protect you from hurting yourself.”
“Then why can’t I move my leg?”
She looked down. “It’s heavy with plaster, and your hip was injured, as well. You haven’t the strength, that’s all.”
“And my arms?”
“Your right is broken, but Papa set and cast it. Your left is whole, though the collarbone—”
“Yes, I feel it. And my ribs?”
“Three are broken on your right side.”
He nodded slowly. “Where the wagon fell.”
She caught his hand between hers as it lay just beneath his chin. “What happened, Quillan?”
His throat worked against her fingers, and his eyes slipped away from hers. “Nitro is chancy stuff.”
“What?” She fought sudden tears. Why wouldn’t he look at her? Did he lie? She sensed it, saw it. “Tell me the truth, Quillan.”
He looked at her now. “It’s unstable, even when neutralized somewhat by the sawdust in dynamite. It’s the risk you take.” He had made his eyes like plates, shutting her out. Why?
“You did this to yourself?”
He didn’t answer. “Do you know where my horses are? Are they all right?”
“In our stable.” Why was he evading her? To protect Flavio? She laid her palm against his cheek. “Did Flavio do this?”
He closed his eyes. “Carina . . . I’m tired.” He was. Overwhelmingly so.
She reached up and stroked his face. “Sleep, then. Every time you wake you’ll be stronger than the last.”
He caught her hand, opening his eyes once more. “Will you be here?
Will they keep you away?”
“I’ll be here. If I leave for a moment I’ll be back. Don’t worry. Just rest. Get strong.”
He closed his eyes.
Signore, he is so weak. He can’t be expected to remember. Maybe he doesn’t know, didn’t see what happened. Maybe it was only an accident. She was the one jumping to conclusions. What proof had she that Flavio caused it? She touched her cheek and remembered his face with his soul torn asunder. She closed her eyes. That was why she suspected him.
Quillan slept through the day, obviously worn out from such small exertion that morning. Papa came in at regular intervals to check his pulse, his incision, his temperature. “Did he speak with you?” he asked Carina softly during one examination.
She nodded. “He asked what was wrong with him.”
Papa felt the glands beneath Quillan’s jawline. “Some swelling,” he said as much to himself as her. “The glands would be enlarged by so much injury.”
“Will he be all right, Papa? Will he heal?”
Her papa cocked his head. “Healing is mending, Carina. Is the mended cloth what it was before?”
She felt a sinking in her heart. “Then he won’t . . .” She couldn’t voice her disappointment.
“Will bones that knit be as bones never broken? I don’t know. Will a body cut open have the integrity of one never exposed?” He spread his hands. “I don’t know.” He looked up, and his sudden keen stare took her by surprise. “Did he say what happened?”
She looked into her papa’s face. Did he also suspect? “He said nitro is unstable.”
Papa stood and washed his hands at the basin, shook the water from them, then reached for the towel. “That was all?”