Page 35 of Harpy of the Ton
“Wh-where I’m from?”
“Can you describe your home, if you can’t recall its name? There’s a number of villages upriver.”
“Why upriver?”
“You were found floating downriver, so it makes sense to make inquiries in the opposite direction. I think—” He broke off.
“My dear, are you all right?”
The river…
Icy fingers rippled over her flesh, curling around her body like chains, binding her arms, swirling and forming a maelstrom of angry, dark liquid. She tried to draw breath, but the chains bound her too tight. Then the fingers gripped her shoulders, and she let out a cry.
“Forgive me, my dear,” the man said. “It must be very distressing.”
“Is she having a seizure, Gerald?”
“No, Charlotte, I believe the poor child was reliving the moment she almost drowned.”
She blinked, and a hot tear splashed onto her cheek. “D-drowned?”
“Don’t you remember? We told you yesterday.”
She closed her eyes, willing the memory to surface—a man approaching her, his thick body blocking the sunlight, hands reaching for her throat as she struck out in fear.
“No, I don’t.” She glanced about the room, with its dull whitewashed walls and bare floorboards. “I need to go home. Why haven’t you taken me home? I can’t stay here—this place is horrible.”
“Well, I’ve never heard anything so uncivil!” the woman cried. “After all we’ve done for you! If it were up to me, I’d turf you out to fend for yourself. It’s plain to see why nobody’s come to—”
“Charlotte, that’s enough!” the man interrupted. “Go see to the children. Leave our guest to me.”
Children—ugh. So that explained the cacophony earlier—the high-pitched shrieks and uncouth gaiety.
The woman scratched the wart on her nose. Then she set the tray beside the bed and exited the room.
The man placed the phial on the tray, then leaned forward. “May I?”
“May you what?”
He gestured toward her head. “I’d like to inspect your wound.”
She reached for her forehead, but rather than skin, her fingertips met cloth.
“Careful,” he said. “You had a nasty bump. The bones seem sound, but it’ll be tender for a while.” Then he hesitated. “You’ll not strike me again? We want to help—you must try to trust us.”
He placed his hands on her head, running light fingertips along her forehead, and she winced at the pulse of pain.
“Very good,” he said. “I think we can remove the bandage tomorrow.”
“And then?”
“We’ll see about getting you up and outside. You want to be well when you leave.”
“I doubt Mrs. Wart-Nose cares whether I’m well or not.”
The doctor’s smile slipped. “My wife may have been uncivil toward you, child, and for that, I apologize. But that’s no reason to treat her with disrespect. Where would you go if we hadn’t taken you in?”
“Home.”
