“But it’s bleeding all over—look at your collar! Are you certain it’s only your ear? We ought to find a doctor—did you say they’d call a doctor to your hotel? Come on, turn your head so I might see.”
Penrose turned his head to the side. Ophelia leaned close and peered through the dim light. “Merciful heavens. It is only your ear—but the bullet has removed a bit at the top.”
“One doesn’t really have need for a complete ear.” Penrose turned his head. Now their faces were merely inches apart. His eyes shone, dark and liquid. “Does one?”
“Well, that depends upon lots of things.” Ophelia swallowed. “On the style of hats one favors, to begin with.”
“I have never owned, and never shall own, one of those fur monstrosities with the ear flaps.”
“Well then, there is also the consideration of music.”
“Music?” Penrose touched Ophelia’s cheek with a gentle pressure that seemed, more than anything else, curious. He left his fingertips there.
“Well, yes, because if one were inclined to attend the symphony, perhaps having one’s ear not all of a piece might interfere with the quality of the sound.”
“I have attended the symphony on occasion, but I am not so much a connoisseur that a missing bit of ear would make a difference. In fact, I once had a piano instructor, as a small boy, who informed me that I have a tin ear.”
“If you had a tin ear, this would not have happened.”
“I am rather glad that it has.” Penrose’s hand slid to the back of Ophelia’s neck.
Time seemed to float. The knocking and clatter of the carriage receded. Here they were at the center of things, with every detail sharpened into more-than-real: the half-hidden glow of the professor’s eyes, the white of the handkerchief still pressed against his ear, the weight of his hand at Ophelia’s neck, her own breathing, his curved mouth so very close to her own. And the peculiar urge—no, longing—to simply get closer to him in order to understand what exactly made him, well . . . himself.
So Ophelia did what she fancied she’d never, ever do. She leaned in the last couple of inches and touched her lips to his.
When that snoozing Beauty of the fairy story was roused by the kiss of Prince Charming, his lips broke through all the languor, dreaming, stiff joints, and crusted eyes of one hundred years. Ophelia had never liked that tale. It had seemed laughable to think that a simple kiss could carry so much weight. But then, she’d never had a kiss. Not a real one, anyway, one not rehearsed with greasepainted and booming actors who, as they kissed her, were surely pondering what to eat for supper.
In the brief moment—three seconds at the most—during which their lips touched, understanding gleamed. This was what everyone was always going on about! This—what was it?
Penrose drew away. “I must not,” he murmured.
“Oh. Right.” Miss Ivy Banks. “I—well, I beg your pardon, Professor Penrose.” Ophelia edged away down the carriage seat.
“No, I beg your pardon. The blame falls entirely upon my shoulders. I should not have taken such liberties, and I assure you it shan’t happen again.” Penrose turned away to look out the window.
The few minutes it took to reach the hotel were just about the longest of Ophelia’s life.
*
Later, Ophelia lay curled in a tight ball on the grand four-poster bed. On the floor beside the bed, the turtle swam gently in the washbasin of water Ophelia had set down for him. She’d propped the Baedeker and a cushion against the washbasin as a sort of stairway for the turtle to get in and out.
The smooth bed linens smelled of laundry soap, starch, and geraniums. Ophelia’s toe throbbed quietly. The deep scratches the mechanical bear had made on her shoulder were red and stingy, but nothing serious. She’d washed them with soap and water and applied calendula flower salve.
If one could not be on speaking terms with one’s self, well, that’s what she was right now. She’d kissed another lady’s betrothed. And now she lay in this impossibly plushy hotel suite that had been paid for by that same man, which made her . . . what?