Read Online Lessons After Dark by Isabel Cooper - Free Book Online Page B

face, “worked under far worse conditions.”
    The nose was indeed broken, Gareth saw once they’d gotten into his office, and bleeding copiously, as such things often did. Fitzpatrick was bearing the pain decently well for a boy his age, but he stifled a yelp when Gareth touched his face. There was some bruising as well, or would be. “Will I be seeing the other fellow after this?”
    Fitzpatrick shook his head. “Not a fight,” he mumbled. “Practicing.” He glanced over at Mrs. Brightmore, straightened his shoulders, and added, “Broke a lamp too. One of the round ones with pendant things.”
    â€œHaving trouble telling the difference between the library and a cricket ground, are we?” Gareth asked, recognizing the description. From where Mrs. Brightmore was sitting, hands folded very properly in her lap, he heard a sound that might have been suppressed laughter. He fought back a smile of his own, reminding himself he didn’t actually like the woman and therefore didn’t want to join her in anything so comradely as humor.
    â€œWe’ll pay. Pocket money and that.”
    â€œMm.” Not really his concern. Gareth placed one hand under the boy’s chin. “Hold still. This is going to hurt.”
    Straightening a broken nose was, by now, one of the tasks he could perform in his sleep. To Fitzpatrick’s credit, he didn’t cry out, just sucked in air and grimaced. Gareth had seen worse from men twice his age.
    â€œThat’s the worst of it,” he said and shifted his hands, putting one on each side of Fitzpatrick’s face, fingertips pointing to the nose. He tried to be careful of the bruises. “This is just going to be a bit odd.”
    Had there been another sound from the side? A sound a woman might make perhaps if she were shifting her weight to get a better view? No matter. Mrs. Brightmore wasn’t his concern either.
    Gareth closed his eyes. Shifting his focus was easy—he’d done it since he was younger than Fitzpatrick or even Fairley—and correcting the injury would be almost as simple. Child’s play, one might say, certainly compared to what he’d been doing a few years ago.
    When he opened his eyes and looked at Fitzpatrick, he saw a man-shaped web of gray-and-silver threads in all different sizes, thickest near the boy’s heart and brain, thinner out near his hands and feet and on the surface of his face. Now a few of the latter were broken, the thickest running down the bridge of his nose. It hadn’t snapped entirely, Gareth saw as he looked closer, but it was worn away in parts, and the rest was unraveling.
    It didn’t take much effort at this point, or even much thought, to reach out and weave part of his energy into the threads, shoring up the unraveling parts and bridging between the broken ends. He worked, carefully aware of how long he’d been out of practice, making sure all of the fastenings joined snugly to one another. He pulled his senses back a little and saw the threads were whole again. Not as good as new—he could still see the edges—but they’d heal the rest of the way soon enough. He closed his eyes again and refocused on the world as he usually saw it.
    Fitzpatrick’s face was still covered in blood, but his nose had stopped bleeding. The straightening had held too, and there was no incipient swelling or even bruising. The boy raised a hand to touch it. “It…doesn’t hurt!”
    â€œNo,” Gareth said, turning away to run a clean handkerchief under cold water. “It won’t. Though I don’t recommend hitting it with anything for a little while. Certainly not a cricket ball.”
    â€œI’ll take it right out of my plans, sir, I promise,” Fitzpatrick replied, clearly regaining his old self by the minute.
    â€œRight,” said Gareth and handed him the handkerchief. “Wash, and let’s make sure