Page 45 of Brighter Than Gold

Kaspian, I thought, had just lost everything. His wife, his unborn child and now his sister. I strained even to pity him.

I heard Callan shift miserably in the chair across the room, undoubtedly haunted by the same images of Yates that I was.

I rolled over listlessly in the bed to look at him. His elbows rested on his knees and his head hung low. He reminded me of a bull stuck too many times that evenhebegan to doubt his strength. Everything was life or death for him. But I didn’t deserve his sacrifices, I’d lied from the very beginning and the truth was going to hurt so many people. It wasn’t worth him risking his life for me whenIdidn’t even care about it anymore.

Callan and I jolted as we heard the lock suddenly slide free in the door. He jumped to his feet, protectively placing himself between me and whomever was on the other side.

“Excuse me,” said a meek voice as the door opened.

I recognized the young man, Eamon who had escorted us to our room when we’d returned from the cabin.

“What do you want?” Callan barked.

“I—I found a doctor, for your wife…”

Callan went to the door and opened it wide. An older gentleman stood in the hallway, dressed handsomely in a fine grey jacket. He hiccupped and swayed.

“Is this a fucking joke?” the general asked the young man.

Eamon blushed. “He’s a doctor, sir.”

“He’s drunk.”

“He’s a client. Of the establishment…”

Callan rolled his eyes. “You’re a doctor?”

The gentleman cleared his throat. “Yes sir, I am.”

“And you’re drunk?”

The man chuckled. “Quite right.”

I didn’t want a doctor. I wanted to be left alone. To lay forever in this bed until I had died and became dust that someone could brush away when the next prisoner was brought in.

“How many pints of blood can a man lose before he dies?” Callan asked.

“Are you testing me?” the man said, incensed.

“I am. Do you honestly think I’m going to allow a drunk stranger who claims to be a doctor, touch my wife?”

“Here I was thinking I’d be doing someone a favour!” He turned and began walking away.

“Sir, please,” Callan called after him. “My wife needs a doctor. I just have to be certain youareone.” Something desperate and pleading in his voice made the man pause and turn back.

“Six to eight, but a man your size could probably lose as much as ten pints.”

Callan relaxed at his answer. “Thank you.” He held the door open in invitation.

I didn’t move under the heavy covers.

“Hello, my dear,” the doctor said, gently approaching me. “My name is Gavril.”

I ignored him.

“My wife fell from her horse. She was, is, pregnant. She—fuck.” Callan ran his hands through his hair and gripped a fistful tightly. “She bled heavily for a few hours, and we don’t know if she lost the baby.”

The doctor turned to me sympathetically. “Ah. What is your name, dear?”

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