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Authors: David Stone
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not be afraid. I am Sister Beatrice, the Director of the clinic here. No guard is waiting in the hall. No one is coming for you today. Here. Let me help you to sit.”
She managed to get him more or less upright, stacking pillows behind him for support. The room rolled only a little as she did this, and the nausea stayed under control, but he was weak . . . boneless. He could barely hold the glass she handed to him. She stepped back again, folding her hands across her waist, her face in repose and considering.
“Are you hungry? Some soup, I think, would be possible now.”
“Yes,” said Dalton, feeling the emptiness in his belly.
“You are in pain. Would you like something for it?”
“Yes. No, no I would not. No morphine. But soup, yes, please.”
He could not afford to be drugged any longer. If the price of being awake and ready for what was coming was to be in pain, it was a reasonable exchange. He glanced around the room and saw a large leather chair, some sort of narrow wooden armoire, doors open, with nothing inside it but a blue terry-cloth bathrobe and a pair of thin cloth slippers. A half-open door in the end wall that probably led to a bathroom. There were no guards in the room. There could be guards in the hall, in spite of the sister’s assurances, but in here there was also a window.
So anything was possible, if he was awake and ready for his chance. Sister Beatrice saw the direction of his thoughts and gave him a conspirator’s smile, but all she said was, “Major Brancati is now here. He has been waiting for you to wake up. He has been called. Are you ready to see him?”
“Yes,” he said, pulling in a deep breath and riding out the consequences with as blank an expression as he could manage. “Of course.”
She nodded, leaned over to straighten his sheets, and to push his long blond hair back from his forehead, letting her fingers move through his hair with a less-than-virginal touch. Then she turned and glided out of the room.
As soon as the door closed, Dalton pulled back the sheets and tried to get out of the bed. He got his feet down onto the stone floor, feeling faint, braced himself, and pushed himself to his feet, swaying, seeing the room go pale as a mist rose up in his vision.
He was wearing some sort of striped pajama bottom and nothing else. A broad surcingle of pale blue gauze was wrapped tightly around his lower torso. He touched his belly with caution, feeling for the stitches underneath, and found a row of them, perhaps eight inches long, running from his hip almost to the middle of his belly. He stood upright with an effort and tried to walk, found that it was just possible to attempt a few uncertain steps in a kind of old man’s shuffle. The door to the bathroom was half open, a tin shower stall visible beyond it. It cost him a great deal to cover the eight feet between the bed and the bathroom, but he managed it, closing the door and leaning his hands against the broad ceramic sink, with its rust-stained drain, while he gathered himself. He looked at his reflection in the stainless steel mirror; dark rings under his pale, colorless eyes, his cheeks sunken, long hair in limp, greasy strands.
He badly needed a shower and a shave, and he was very aware of the fact that a light breeze could knock him down, but he was still alive, and if the Company was trying to get to him, they hadn’t done it yet.
He shuffled carefully to the barred window and looked out at a long canal that ran northward between low stone walls, the Canale delle Galeazze, the surface of its placid gray waters pebbled with a light rain that made it look like a sheet of hammered tin. Shreds of mist drifted across the canal. The wind off the Adriatic carried the smell of fish, a hint of garlic, and the graveyard reek of Venice in the fall. Just visible out in the sea mist was the low tomb-filled cemetery island called Isola di San Michele. The bars of the little window were thick and set deep
She managed to get him more or less upright, stacking pillows behind him for support. The room rolled only a little as she did this, and the nausea stayed under control, but he was weak . . . boneless. He could barely hold the glass she handed to him. She stepped back again, folding her hands across her waist, her face in repose and considering.
“Are you hungry? Some soup, I think, would be possible now.”
“Yes,” said Dalton, feeling the emptiness in his belly.
“You are in pain. Would you like something for it?”
“Yes. No, no I would not. No morphine. But soup, yes, please.”
He could not afford to be drugged any longer. If the price of being awake and ready for what was coming was to be in pain, it was a reasonable exchange. He glanced around the room and saw a large leather chair, some sort of narrow wooden armoire, doors open, with nothing inside it but a blue terry-cloth bathrobe and a pair of thin cloth slippers. A half-open door in the end wall that probably led to a bathroom. There were no guards in the room. There could be guards in the hall, in spite of the sister’s assurances, but in here there was also a window.
So anything was possible, if he was awake and ready for his chance. Sister Beatrice saw the direction of his thoughts and gave him a conspirator’s smile, but all she said was, “Major Brancati is now here. He has been waiting for you to wake up. He has been called. Are you ready to see him?”
“Yes,” he said, pulling in a deep breath and riding out the consequences with as blank an expression as he could manage. “Of course.”
She nodded, leaned over to straighten his sheets, and to push his long blond hair back from his forehead, letting her fingers move through his hair with a less-than-virginal touch. Then she turned and glided out of the room.
As soon as the door closed, Dalton pulled back the sheets and tried to get out of the bed. He got his feet down onto the stone floor, feeling faint, braced himself, and pushed himself to his feet, swaying, seeing the room go pale as a mist rose up in his vision.
He was wearing some sort of striped pajama bottom and nothing else. A broad surcingle of pale blue gauze was wrapped tightly around his lower torso. He touched his belly with caution, feeling for the stitches underneath, and found a row of them, perhaps eight inches long, running from his hip almost to the middle of his belly. He stood upright with an effort and tried to walk, found that it was just possible to attempt a few uncertain steps in a kind of old man’s shuffle. The door to the bathroom was half open, a tin shower stall visible beyond it. It cost him a great deal to cover the eight feet between the bed and the bathroom, but he managed it, closing the door and leaning his hands against the broad ceramic sink, with its rust-stained drain, while he gathered himself. He looked at his reflection in the stainless steel mirror; dark rings under his pale, colorless eyes, his cheeks sunken, long hair in limp, greasy strands.
He badly needed a shower and a shave, and he was very aware of the fact that a light breeze could knock him down, but he was still alive, and if the Company was trying to get to him, they hadn’t done it yet.
He shuffled carefully to the barred window and looked out at a long canal that ran northward between low stone walls, the Canale delle Galeazze, the surface of its placid gray waters pebbled with a light rain that made it look like a sheet of hammered tin. Shreds of mist drifted across the canal. The wind off the Adriatic carried the smell of fish, a hint of garlic, and the graveyard reek of Venice in the fall. Just visible out in the sea mist was the low tomb-filled cemetery island called Isola di San Michele. The bars of the little window were thick and set deep
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