Jules smiled down at him, noticing the slurring of his words as the laudanum took effect. He would sleep a good four hours, Sam had assured her. And he needed the rest. The best thing for him, she knew. His eyes would heal. She would make them heal.
* * *
Jules held his hand as Sam unwound the bandages. “Keep your eyes closed, Saint, until I tell you otherwise.”
“Doctors,” Saint said in disgust.
“Now, very slowly, open your eyes.”
He did. He was praying, hard. Nothing but the same shadowy pale white light. He wanted to curse and cry. He swallowed, knowing Jules and Sam both were holding their breath.
“Just the lights,” he said. “I guess I need more time to heal. Another week, Sam?”
Sam was bitterly disappointed, but not overly surprised. He’d seen quite a bit of damage in the cornea. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Jules, as he now called her. She was a strong girl, and he knew she was silent because she would refuse to cry.
“Yes,” he said calmly, “let’s give it another seven days. Is the light any clearer?”
“No, just pale and hazy.”
“Hold very still. I want to take another look to make sure all the fragments are out.”
Jules was fighting the lump in her throat. He doesn’t need you to burst into tears like a silly ninny, she told herself firmly. Don’t you dare!
“Looks good to me,” Sam said. “Any pain?”
“No.”
“Back on with the bandage.” Sam looked at Jules. He stretched out his hand and took hers, squeezing it hard. “Why don’t you put it on, Jules? You’ve a light, sure touch.”
It gave her mind direction, focus. She smiled at Sam, looking up for his approval as she fastened the bandage. He nodded.
“We’ve seen little of Thomas,” Saint said, then laughed roughly at his choice of verbs.
“I’ve got the boy working hard, as you can well imagine. He’ll be a fine doctor someday, Saint, a fine doctor.” He added a moment later, after sending an assessing look toward Jules, “He’s got grit, just like your wife here. Yes, indeed. Seems to me, Saint, that not all your patients need to come to me. Lord knows I’m old and tired! Perhaps Jules here could examine some of them, and you could tell her what to do. What do you think, Jules?”
“I think that’s a fine idea.”
“Good, I’ll spread the word.”
When Jules returned to the surgery, she stopped cold in the doorway. Saint had gotten off the examining table and was feeling his way toward her. He bumped his leg against a chair and cursed.
“To your right, about a foot away,” she said in a calm, clear voice, “is your drug cabinet. If you walk straight, you’ll come right to me.”
He wanted to yell at her that she was a stupid twit and that every goddamned thing in the world was nothing but black, impenetrable black. He said instead, “Keep talking. Balance is still difficult.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” Jules said. “You’re doing fine, Michael.” She swallowed convulsively, and forced some wickedness into her voice. “As you come straight at me, stretch our your hands. But not too far apart, mind!”
That did make him smile, a bit.
“Now, lower your arms, Michael.”
He did, and encountered her breasts. He stood quietly a moment, concentrating on the shape of her. “You’re beautiful,” he said, and Jules moved quickly into his arms.
He felt her cheek nuzzling his shoulder, felt her slender arms tighten about his back.
“I’m glad you’re my wife, Jules, but dammit, it’s not fair to you and—”
She clasped her hands behind his back and squeezed as hard as she could. “If you finish that thought, you will make me very angry. Now, do you promise?”