Page 7 of As Many Stars
“Young man!” Doctor Prym drew himself up, and became an offended ostrich. Blake had seen one, during his travels; they even had the same ruffled feathers, or in this case, moustache. “It is perfectly safe—a tried and true method of realigning the disordered internal workings, placing less strain upon the heart—”
Blake eyed Ashley’s arm. He could not imagine that gracefulness opened up, dripping blood with surgical precision. He hated that thought with sickening stomach-churning horror.
And yet, and yet…the man was a physician, and surely he knew best. Didn’t he?
Blake tried, “You’recertainit would be recommended, then…?” and let the question hang in the bedroom, bouncing from writing-desk to carpet to wallpaper.
The ostrich grew even more offended. “I am unused to being so questioned. Are you in possession of medical training, sir? Perhaps a doctor yourself?”
“No, I…” He hesitated. He truly didn’t know. “Will it…hurt?”
Doctor Prym dove for his bag. Produced an instrumentthat looked, to Blake’s terrified eyes, exactly like a clattering sharp-edged metallic promise of torture. “Some laudanum would be of use.”
Ash whispered, “Blake,” and coughed.
Blake sank down on the bed beside him. Took his hand. “I’m here.”
“Please don’t.” Ashley was staring at the lancet. Thin and pale as hopeless last stands, he nevertheless managed the command of a young prince, a man facing armies without a shield. A storybook hero, made of resolution, reaching out to a loyal retainer. “I can’t, Blake, please.”
“If he thinks it’ll help…”
“It won’t. I know it won’t. I can feel…” Ash tried to keep talking, started coughing, collapsed back into pillows. Blake, every internal bone and sinew and piece of himself screaming, handed him water, steadied the cup, supported Ashley’s sitting up. Ash swallowed, leaned into Blake’s hand, went on, “I’m so tired already…I know I’d feel worse. Please.”
“If it’s about balance…”
Light glinted off the blade, a nearly audible threat.
“I think I’d die,” Ashley pleaded. He had a hand on Blake’s arm; and that was fatal too, because Blake could never, never, do anything to harm him. And Ash was scared, and Blake knew about being injured, knew about the feeling of weakness as blood slid out, the way it had when he’d fallen amid mountains in Germany, and the cruelness of a pointed rock had gouged open his thigh…
He put his own hand, big and broad, over Ash’s. He said, to the physician, “He doesn’t want it.”
“That is entirely foolish, young man. Dangerous, even.”
“He’s conscious and rational,” Blake said, “and telling us he doesn’t want it. If—if he gets worse—but for now, he has a choice. I won’t do anything he doesn’t want.”
The lancet went back into the bag. The bag slammed shut. “Do not expect to call upon me again. Not after this ingratitude.”
Blake bit his lip, doubt resurfacing like a shark’s fin through flat seas.
Ash’s hand tightened on his arm.
“I shall,” Doctor Prym announced, “charge you my full fee,” and stalked majestically out.
“Thank you,” Ash breathed. “Thank you.” Sitting up, framed by sky-blue bed-hangings and cream-hued bedding, he was earnest and fragile and brimming over with relief. He was everything Blake had ever wanted to protect, to revere, to write hymns for.
He shoved himself to his feet. “Don’t thank me. I’m not convinced that was the best idea.”
“But you did it for me.”
“I’ve seen bloodletting. In Egypt, when one member of the expedition fell ill.”
“Did it help?”
“No.” The man had died. Blake did not say so; he did not look round, in case Ash read that truth in his face. “But perhaps it would work for you. Or not. I don’tknow.”
Ashley said nothing for a moment, and then, simply: “Thank you for listening.”
Blake spun back around. “I’m always listening. Would you accept the laudanum, at least?”
