Page 127 of Kingmakers, Year Two

“You don’t want sugar? Oh that’s right, you said plain. Healthier for you, but I never quite got rid of my sweet tooth.”

He dumps three lumps into his tea and stirs without noticing anything amiss.

“Ah!” He says, after a satisfied slurp. “Let’s get to it, then.”

He sets down his mug so he can pick up his needle and thread. I resolutely turn my face toward the window. I don’t want to watch. Dr. Cross works swiftly, in spite of his arthritis-ridden hands. When he’s done, the line of stitches down my arm is neater than the jagged wound deserved.

“There!” He says, with satisfaction. “I’ll put a bandage on it, too. Keep the wound clean. Come back for fresh wrapping when you need it. The stitches will dissolve on their own in a few weeks. Don’t pick at it, whatever you do.”

“Can I rest a little longer?” I ask him. “I’m still dizzy.”

He glances at the clock. “If you like. You’ll miss the challenge, but that may be for the best. It’s damn hot today. No good sitting out in the sun.”

He tidies up swiftly and efficiently, then washes his hands once more. As he turns to leave, I say, “Dr. Cross! You forgot your tea!”

“So I did,” he says, lifting the mug and taking another swig. “Still warm.”

Thank god for that.

He sits down on the bed next to mine to continue drinking. He slurps with every sip, but it’s not an uncouth sound. In fact, it’s strangely comforting.

“What’s your family name?” he demands, squinting at me through the inch-thick lenses of his glasses.

“Romero,” I tell him.

He makes a dismissive sound. “Never heard of it. I barely know any of the families anymore.”

“Is your family mafia?” I ask him.

“My mother was an Umbra,” he says, proudly. When he perceives that I don’t know what that means, he adds, impatiently, “They were a founding family, girl, good god, what are they teaching you out there?”

I’m relieved to see that he finished his tea. Even more relieved to see that his blinks are becoming longer and slower.

“I’m getting too old for this,” he says morosely, gazing at the washed and sterilized instruments he has yet to put away.

“Why don’t you rest and I’ll put those in the cabinet?” I offer.

“Well . . . go on, then,” he says, leaning back against the pillow with his fingers interlaced over his chest. “I may as well rest a moment. There’s sure to be another injury or two before the day is done.”

He closes his eyes, his breath already slowing.

Quietly, I unlatch the glass-fronted cabinet and put the instruments back in their carefully-labeled places.

I’m trying to move silently, trying not even to breathe.

Soon Dr. Cross’s mouth hangs open and long snores come rasping out.

I wait for five, then ten agonizing minutes. I have to be sure he’s deeply asleep before I leave.

The dose I gave him should knock him out for hours.

Some parts of this plan are well-organized, but others rely on chance. It was dumb luck that I was the only person to require Dr. Cross’ services this morning, and I’d like to keep it that way. TheQuartum Bellumis the complicating factor. It’s a rare challenge that doesn’t result in at least a few injuries.

I need to leave and return as quickly as possible.

I also have to beat Rocco to our meeting place.

Creeping around on tiptoe, I lock the door to the infirmary, then crack the back window just wide enough for me to shimmy out. The heavy wooden sash creaks. I cast an anxious glance back at the slumbering Dr. Cross, relieved to see that he hasn’t shifted position whatsoever. His continued snores soothe my fears of an overdose.

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