“Charlotte’s got a nice supply of tranquilizers in her medicine chest. I’m sure she could arrange for them both to get a heavy dose.”
Michael could certainly subscribe to that. His only hope was that Sinclair’s belligerence would evaporate once he understood that this was the only way he and Eleanor could be rescued from their immediate plight.
And would he trust Michael enough to go along?
Darryl kicked off his boots, got up, and crawled into his lower bunk. “Eating makes me sleepy,” he said, stretching out his legs. “Come wake me whenever you want to go over to see Prince Charming.”
“Will do.”
Darryl stretched his legs out. “By the way,” he added, “you do know that what you’re doing is crazy, right?”
Michael nodded, while yanking the zipper halfway up the duffel.
“Glad to hear it. ’Cause if you didn’t, I’d have to start worrying about you.”
Eleanor awoke with a start, the picture of Miss Nightingale’s reproachful face still before her. She had never overcome the sense of guilt at betraying the great lady—and the profession itself—by absconding with Sinclair, and she often dreamt of making amends somehow.
Her limbs felt cold and dead, even under the blanket, and she rubbed her arms vigorously to get the blood circulating. Sitting up, she gave herself a second to get her bearings, then pushed the blanket aside and stood up beside the bed. She was about to stamp her feet on the floor, too, but then thought better of it—the sound might bring Dr. Barnes running from the next room, and she didn’t want company, much less medical attention, just yet.
Had she been cured? And if she had, would she feel the way she did—slightly numbed, a trifle chilly—forever? Was that the price?
Wrapping the blanket around her shoulders like a shawl, she stepped to the window and drew back the black curtains. It was preternaturally still outside, and it occurred to her that this might be the calm before the storm. The snow on the ground glinted in the sharp, cold rays of the sun. She had to step back and shield her eyes from the glare.
And then something crossed her field of vision, a flash of red—and she stepped closer again.
It came again, moving swiftly, surreptitiously, down the snowy concourse, looking this way and that. She put her face closer to the window and peered out…and the figure stopped, raised a hand to shield its own eyes, and peered back.
It was Sinclair, the red coat with the white cross billowing out over his cavalry uniform.
Before she could even raise a hand to signal him, he had run across the snow, skidding and nearly falling several times, and she could hear the door to the building flying open down the hall. She hurried on tiptoe to the infirmary entry, and when he saw her she put a finger to her lips and waved for him to follow her inside.
Once there, she closed the door to the hall, and had no sooner turned around again than he had clasped her in his arms.
“I knew I would find you!” he whispered. He quickly surveyed the room, taking in the cabinets filled with medical supplies and said, “This is the field hospital?”
“Yes,” she said.
“And this is where they’ve been keeping you? Are you all right?”
“Yes, yes,” she said, gently trying to extricate herself from his too-eager grasp. “But how did you get here?”
He brushed the question aside, and said, “We have to go.”
“Where, Sinclair? Where would we go?” She grabbed his hands and stared into his bloodshot, half-mad eyes. “These people can help us,” she said, imploringly. “They have helped me already, and they can help you, too.”
“Helped you? How?”
“They have a medicine,” she said, “a medicine that can help us…change.”
His breath was short and ragged. She knew he was in the grip of the terrible thirst. She cast her eyes wildly around the room, and then settled on the fridge, where she had found the bag of blood. Surely that would be where the other bag, the bag with the medicine in it, was stored.
“Wait,” she said, moving to the refrigerator and flinging it open. A bag identical to the one that Charlotte had used to fill the syringe—perhaps the very same one—sat on a wire shelf; a label on it read AFGP-5. She prayed it was the right one.
“Come on,” Sinclair urged. “Whatever this is, we haven’t time for it.”
But Eleanor ignored him. If she could save him, she would, and she had seen the procedure with the needle done enough times that she was confident she could do it herself.
“Take off your coat—quickly!”
“What are you saying? Have you lost your mind?”
“Just do as I say. I’m not moving an inch until you do.”
He yanked the coat off in exasperation.
She took out the bag and found a fresh needle in the cabinet.
“Roll up your sleeve!” she said, filling the syringe.
“Eleanor, please, there is no hope, or help, for us. We are what we are.”