They’d forgotten all about Peterson. My job was done.
I yanked again on his ear and, as I tore free of his grasp, I heard the ring of steel as he drew his sword.
The world went very quiet and still.
Chapter Twenty-one
‘I see you,
Golden-eyed girl.
Watcher of time’s brave pageant.
Beloved of Kleio.
Weep for your dreams
For today they die.
Your heart will grow cold.
And as the leaves fall
The golden-eyed girl
Will leave this world.
Never to return.’
I stared uncomprehendingly at the red, wet thing protruding from my chest.
I should do something, but I was already drifting away.
I should scream, but the need to breathe had left me.
Time – finally – stood still for me. I looked up at the tracery of black branches dramatically etched against the milk-white sky. I looked down at the sodden, once golden leaves. I should move. Run. Do something.
I closed my eyes and fell forwards into the pile of wet, soft …
… hard, hairy carpet.
Sometimes, it’s best to leap to your feet, armed and ready to tackle anything, and sometimes, it’s best just to lie still and wonder what the hell’s going on. My nostrils were full of carpet dust. I could feel the bristly texture of Axminster against my cheek.
A familiar voice said, ‘Breathe.’
That was not going to happen. My chest was on fire. Huge, pulsing, red-hot, agonising fire. Breathing in could only make it worse. Besides, I was dead. I must be. No one could survive a wound like that.
My stupid body took over and I took a deep, carpet-dust laden gulp of air, coughed blood, and doubled up in a pain no words of mine could describe.
I don’t know how long I lay, taking tiny, shallow breaths and bleeding all over someone’s carpet.
Since I obviously wasn’t dead, I eventually opened one cautious eye.
I could see carpet, the lower half of an armchair, and elegantly sandaled feet.
I closed my eyes again. I knew those feet. They never boded well.
The silence went on. I knew she was waiting. Dear God, was there no respite? Even in death …?
In a painful whisper, I said, ‘I’m not dead, am I?’
‘No.’
That would do for the time being. Just let me rest. In peace, preferably.
‘Open your eyes.’
It was a command and my eyes opened of their own accord.
‘Can you get up?’
‘No.’
‘I think you should try.’
Well, she would think that, wouldn’t she?
I put my forearms on the floor and tried to push myself up. Pain sleeted through every last inch of me. Everything hurt. For God’s sake, I had taken a sword through the heart. Why couldn’t she let me be?
‘Try again. The sooner you are able to move, the sooner your pain will dissipate.’
A likely story. But again, independent of anything I wanted to do – which was just lie still and die all over again – I pushed myself a few inches off the carpet and tried to look around.
Nothing I recognised here. Early-to mid-twenty-first-century furnishings. Solid. Dull. Clean. Conventional. I fell back again with a groan.
‘Come along, Dr Maxwell. Time is short.’
‘Go away,’ I said, brave because I was already dying. What else could she do to me?
‘I shall, as soon as I see you on your feet and functioning.’
I got one knee underneath me this time, then the other, a forearm on the coffee table, another on the sofa. And that was it. I hung, quivering with the strain.
Someone lifted me up and dropped me onto the sofa. I lay back, waiting for the waves of pain to subside.
‘Please drink this.’
God knows what it was. Some ancient corpse-reviver from the groves of Mount Ida, probably. It tasted like someone’s discarded washing-up water. Hot liquid burned its way down my throat and mingled with the other, larger, still-present and definitely-not-going-away pain.
I closed my eyes, still unwilling to participate in current events.
‘Dr Maxwell, open your eyes, please, and listen to me.’
I sighed. I’d deliberately asked no questions or shown any interest in anything in the vain hope she would just go away and leave me alone.
As if what I wanted was of any importance.
The silence lengthened as she waited for me to utter the traditional, ‘When am I?’ followed by the equally traditional, ‘Where am I?’ and followed, in this case, by the very justified, ‘What the hell is going on?’
I refused to cooperate. ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’
‘None whatsoever.’ I sighed. Of course there wasn’t.
‘What do you want, Mrs Partridge?’
Do you ever wonder if there was a Mr Partridge?
‘I want you to open your eyes and pay close attention. This is important.’
‘Am I dead?’
‘As I told you, no.’
‘Is this the Elysian Fields?’
‘You are in Rushford. Please try and pull yourself together.’
I opened my eyes and squinted down at myself. ‘The sword’s gone.’
‘The wound is closed.’
‘The wound still hurts like hell.’
‘I said the wound is closed, not healed.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m not a healer.’