Read Online William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry by Anne Perry - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anne Perry
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glimpse of the man he must have been before this terrible thing had happened to him.
Rhys did not knock the bell for her during the night; nevertheless, she woke twice of her own accord and went in to see how he was. On the first occasion she found him sleeping fitfully. She waited a few moments, then crept out again without disturbing him.
The second time he was awake, and he heard her the moment she pushed the door. He was lying staring towards her. She had not brought a candle, using only the light from the embers of the fire. The room was colder. His eyes looked hollow in the shadows.
She smiled at him.
“I think it’s time I stoked the fire again,” she said quietly. “It’s nearly out.”
He nodded very slightly and then watched her as she crossed the room and took away the guard and bent to riddle the dead ash through the basket and very gently pile more small pieces of coal on what was left, then wait until it caught in a fragile flame.
“It’s coming,” she said for no reason other than a sense of communication. She looked around and saw him still watching her. “Are you cold?” she asked.
He nodded, but it was halfhearted, his expression rueful. She gathered he was only a very little chilly.
She waited until the flames were stronger, then put on more coals, piling them high enough to last until morning.
She went back to the bed and looked at him more closely, trying to read in his expression what he wanted or needed. Hedid not seem in physical pain any more than before, but there was an urgency in his eyes, a tension around his mouth. Did he want her to stay or to go? If she asked him, would it be too clumsy, too direct? She must be delicate. He had been hurt so badly. What had happened to him? What had he seen?
“Would you like a little milk and arrowroot?” she suggested.
He nodded immediately.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she promised.
She returned nearly a quarter of an hour later. It was farther to the kitchen than she had remembered, and it had taken longer to bring the cooking range to a reasonable heat. But the ingredients were fresh and she had a handsome blue-and-white porcelain mug filled with steaming milk, just the right temperature to drink, and the arrowroot in it would be soothing. She propped the pillows behind him and held the mug to his lips. He drank its contents with a smile, his eyes steady on hers.
When he was finished she was not sure whether he wanted her to stay or not, to speak or remain silent. What should she say? Usually she would have asked a patient about himself, led him to talk to her. But anything with Rhys would be utterly one-sided. She could only guess from his expression whether her words interested or bored, encouraged or caused further pain.
In the end she said nothing.
She took the empty cup from him. “Are you ready to sleep?” she asked.
He shook his head slowly but decisively. He wanted her to stay.
“You have some very interesting books.” She glanced towards the shelf. “Do you like to be read to?”
He thought for a moment, then nodded. She should choose something far removed from his present life, and it must be something without violence. Nothing must remind him of his own experience. And yet it must not be tedious either.
She went over to the shelf and tried to make out the titles in the firelight, which was now considerable. “How about a history of Byzantium?” she suggested.
He nodded again, and she returned with the book in her hand. “I’ll have to light the gas,” she said.
He agreed, and for three quarters of an hour she read quietly to him about the colorful and devious history of that great center of empire, its customs and its people, its intrigues and struggles for power. He fell asleep reluctantly, and she closed the book, marking the page with a taper from the box by the fire, put out the light again, and tiptoed back to her room with a feeling of something close to elation.
There was not a great
Rhys did not knock the bell for her during the night; nevertheless, she woke twice of her own accord and went in to see how he was. On the first occasion she found him sleeping fitfully. She waited a few moments, then crept out again without disturbing him.
The second time he was awake, and he heard her the moment she pushed the door. He was lying staring towards her. She had not brought a candle, using only the light from the embers of the fire. The room was colder. His eyes looked hollow in the shadows.
She smiled at him.
“I think it’s time I stoked the fire again,” she said quietly. “It’s nearly out.”
He nodded very slightly and then watched her as she crossed the room and took away the guard and bent to riddle the dead ash through the basket and very gently pile more small pieces of coal on what was left, then wait until it caught in a fragile flame.
“It’s coming,” she said for no reason other than a sense of communication. She looked around and saw him still watching her. “Are you cold?” she asked.
He nodded, but it was halfhearted, his expression rueful. She gathered he was only a very little chilly.
She waited until the flames were stronger, then put on more coals, piling them high enough to last until morning.
She went back to the bed and looked at him more closely, trying to read in his expression what he wanted or needed. Hedid not seem in physical pain any more than before, but there was an urgency in his eyes, a tension around his mouth. Did he want her to stay or to go? If she asked him, would it be too clumsy, too direct? She must be delicate. He had been hurt so badly. What had happened to him? What had he seen?
“Would you like a little milk and arrowroot?” she suggested.
He nodded immediately.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she promised.
She returned nearly a quarter of an hour later. It was farther to the kitchen than she had remembered, and it had taken longer to bring the cooking range to a reasonable heat. But the ingredients were fresh and she had a handsome blue-and-white porcelain mug filled with steaming milk, just the right temperature to drink, and the arrowroot in it would be soothing. She propped the pillows behind him and held the mug to his lips. He drank its contents with a smile, his eyes steady on hers.
When he was finished she was not sure whether he wanted her to stay or not, to speak or remain silent. What should she say? Usually she would have asked a patient about himself, led him to talk to her. But anything with Rhys would be utterly one-sided. She could only guess from his expression whether her words interested or bored, encouraged or caused further pain.
In the end she said nothing.
She took the empty cup from him. “Are you ready to sleep?” she asked.
He shook his head slowly but decisively. He wanted her to stay.
“You have some very interesting books.” She glanced towards the shelf. “Do you like to be read to?”
He thought for a moment, then nodded. She should choose something far removed from his present life, and it must be something without violence. Nothing must remind him of his own experience. And yet it must not be tedious either.
She went over to the shelf and tried to make out the titles in the firelight, which was now considerable. “How about a history of Byzantium?” she suggested.
He nodded again, and she returned with the book in her hand. “I’ll have to light the gas,” she said.
He agreed, and for three quarters of an hour she read quietly to him about the colorful and devious history of that great center of empire, its customs and its people, its intrigues and struggles for power. He fell asleep reluctantly, and she closed the book, marking the page with a taper from the box by the fire, put out the light again, and tiptoed back to her room with a feeling of something close to elation.
There was not a great
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