Read Online Valour and Vanity by Mary Robinette Kowal - Free Book Online
Authors: Mary Robinette Kowal
Ads: Link
lips tightly together and swallowed convulsively. A light sweat stood on his brow.
“What may I do?” She felt his brow for fever. Vincent was not prone to seasickness under normal circumstances, but he had a decidedly green cast.
His voice was hoarse as he replied. “Forgive me. It has been some time since I have been badly concussed. The motion of the ship—”
He broke off and leaned out the gondola’s small window, demonstrating the effects with more vehemence than comfort.
Jane passed him her handkerchief, and did her best to not fuss over him. He would be mortified enough as it was, without feeling as if he were a burden. “I would rather that you were unfamiliar with the symptoms.”
“As would I.” He took the handkerchief and wiped his mouth.
She ventured, “We can wait until you are well to visit the glassmakers.”
He shook his head, though his eyes remained closed. “Please do not worry. Once we are on land, I will be well.”
“You will not be in any fit condition to work glamour.”
“As we discovered yesterday.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed slowly. “But we will not be working glamour today. I would rather spend my recovery making progress in those areas that I can.”
“You are only seeking a way out of shopping for clothes.”
He gave a hint of a smile with the small compression of his lips. “You know me too well.”
Jane sighed. He was right in that. She knew him too well to suppose that she could convince him to spend the afternoon resting. Still, she would keep watch on his health. She could not entirely trust his judgement in the matter.
Indeed, when they arrived at the dock in Murano, Vincent preceded her out of the boat and turned to offer his hand, as though his complexion did not have an unnatural pallor.
She accepted his aid and stepped up onto the dock beside him. “Are you certain that you do not wish to return to Signor Sanuto’s home?”
“Quite. I shall feel better for walking.” True to his word, his countenance improved as they strolled along the canal to the glassmaker’s district.
Jane considered before she asked the question she most wanted to know. Vincent was so often private about the life he had led before he disavowed his family that she sometimes hesitated to ask about his youth, particularly after meeting his father. She felt the urge to protect him from the memories he had walled away, and yet she wanted to know everything about his life, even the parts that were sometimes difficult to hear.
They stepped onto one of the bridges arching over the canal. “Do I dare ask how often you have been in this condition?”
Vincent tucked his chin into his collar in thought. “Three? Perhaps four times, but one was so mild it barely counts. And let me assure you, Muse, that this is not severe.”
“You now require me to ask what severe is and how you know?”
“Severe means that I cannot stand without toppling and am confined to bed for a week. It means seeing everything in double and forgetting great swathes of time. But I was also only twelve, so one must allow for that.”
“Good heavens. Twelve? And so severely hurt? Were you thrown from a horse or did you run into a tree with mad exuberance?” She posed that question, preferring it to the more likely scenario.
“My father hit me.” His tone was easy. His pace did not falter. The sun continued to shine as they crossed the bridge. “He caught me working glamour. Again. I have been told that what actually caused the concussion was that I hit my head on the hearth’s andiron when I fell. I do not remember. Certainly his usual blows were not enough to have caused it.”
“Oh.”
“He was contrite while I was confined. I do remember that, though the rest is patchwork.” He gave a shallow laugh. “I suppose it was unusual enough to remain fixed in memory.”
This revelation was why Jane so seldom asked about his life as The Honourable Vincent Hamilton, third son of the
“What may I do?” She felt his brow for fever. Vincent was not prone to seasickness under normal circumstances, but he had a decidedly green cast.
His voice was hoarse as he replied. “Forgive me. It has been some time since I have been badly concussed. The motion of the ship—”
He broke off and leaned out the gondola’s small window, demonstrating the effects with more vehemence than comfort.
Jane passed him her handkerchief, and did her best to not fuss over him. He would be mortified enough as it was, without feeling as if he were a burden. “I would rather that you were unfamiliar with the symptoms.”
“As would I.” He took the handkerchief and wiped his mouth.
She ventured, “We can wait until you are well to visit the glassmakers.”
He shook his head, though his eyes remained closed. “Please do not worry. Once we are on land, I will be well.”
“You will not be in any fit condition to work glamour.”
“As we discovered yesterday.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed slowly. “But we will not be working glamour today. I would rather spend my recovery making progress in those areas that I can.”
“You are only seeking a way out of shopping for clothes.”
He gave a hint of a smile with the small compression of his lips. “You know me too well.”
Jane sighed. He was right in that. She knew him too well to suppose that she could convince him to spend the afternoon resting. Still, she would keep watch on his health. She could not entirely trust his judgement in the matter.
Indeed, when they arrived at the dock in Murano, Vincent preceded her out of the boat and turned to offer his hand, as though his complexion did not have an unnatural pallor.
She accepted his aid and stepped up onto the dock beside him. “Are you certain that you do not wish to return to Signor Sanuto’s home?”
“Quite. I shall feel better for walking.” True to his word, his countenance improved as they strolled along the canal to the glassmaker’s district.
Jane considered before she asked the question she most wanted to know. Vincent was so often private about the life he had led before he disavowed his family that she sometimes hesitated to ask about his youth, particularly after meeting his father. She felt the urge to protect him from the memories he had walled away, and yet she wanted to know everything about his life, even the parts that were sometimes difficult to hear.
They stepped onto one of the bridges arching over the canal. “Do I dare ask how often you have been in this condition?”
Vincent tucked his chin into his collar in thought. “Three? Perhaps four times, but one was so mild it barely counts. And let me assure you, Muse, that this is not severe.”
“You now require me to ask what severe is and how you know?”
“Severe means that I cannot stand without toppling and am confined to bed for a week. It means seeing everything in double and forgetting great swathes of time. But I was also only twelve, so one must allow for that.”
“Good heavens. Twelve? And so severely hurt? Were you thrown from a horse or did you run into a tree with mad exuberance?” She posed that question, preferring it to the more likely scenario.
“My father hit me.” His tone was easy. His pace did not falter. The sun continued to shine as they crossed the bridge. “He caught me working glamour. Again. I have been told that what actually caused the concussion was that I hit my head on the hearth’s andiron when I fell. I do not remember. Certainly his usual blows were not enough to have caused it.”
“Oh.”
“He was contrite while I was confined. I do remember that, though the rest is patchwork.” He gave a shallow laugh. “I suppose it was unusual enough to remain fixed in memory.”
This revelation was why Jane so seldom asked about his life as The Honourable Vincent Hamilton, third son of the
Similar Books
