He opened his mouth—even after nine months it was an automatic reaction. After all, he’d spent eight and twenty years opening his mouth and having speech emerge—without thought or effort. Such a simple thing. A mundane, everyday thing, speech, the thing that set men apart from the animals.
Lost—perhaps forever—to him now.
So he opened his mouth and then didn’t know what to do, for he’d tried before, tried for days and weeks, and all that had occurred was a damnably sore throat. He thought of that day, of the boot shoved into his neck, of the Bedlam guard leering down at him as he threatened hell, and he could actually feel his throat closing, cutting off hope and humanity and the power of speech.
“Maude!” Miss Stump was there now and he had no idea what she saw on his face, but she was frowning fiercely—at the maidservant. “Stop badgering him, please. He can’t talk. Perhaps it doesn’t really matter why.”
It might make him a weakling, but he took her defense gratefully. A part of him railed against his own cowardliness. A man—even a man without the power of speech—shouldn’t hide behind a woman’s skirts. Apollo ducked his head, avoiding both women’s gazes as he strode to the door. This had been a mistake—he’d known it from the first. He should never have given in to the temptation to come here. To try to associate with other folk as if he were a normal man still.
A small, damp hand caught Apollo as he made for the door, and such was his disquiet, he nearly pulled away.
But he remembered in time and stopped.
Indio looked up at him, his hair in wet spirals, dripping onto his nightshirt. The boy had his brows drawn together, but underneath his stern expression there was hurt. “Are you leaving?
Apollo nodded.
“Oh.” Indio let go of Apollo’s hand and chewed his bottom lip. “Are you coming back? Daff wants you to.”
o;Like he can’t understand,” Indio said.
“Start undressing,” she reminded him.
Indio sighed heavily. “He can.”
She placed her hands on her hips and raised an eyebrow.
“Caliban’s smart,” Indio insisted, his voice only slightly muffled by the shirt over his head. He pulled it all the way off, making his hair stand on end, and looked at her.
She bit her lip. “How do you know?”
Indio shrugged and sat on the floor to push off his stockings. “I just do.”
She frowned, thinking. Caliban had presented himself as dull-witted the first time she’d seen him. Was it a ruse? And if so, whyever would…?
“Mama,” her son said with all the exasperated patience of a seven-year-old. He’d somehow taken off everything but his smalls while she was woolgathering.
“Yes, dear.”
“I’m old enough to bathe myself.”
That was actually debatable, since though Indio could wash the more obvious parts of himself—such as his feet—he had the tendency to forget anything else, such as his neck, face, knees, and elbows.
But she sighed and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll check back in a bit, then, shall I?”
“Yes, please,” he said, scrambling out of his smalls.
Daffodil immediately attacked them as Indio got in the bath.
Lily opened the door. “Maude, would you—”
She cut herself off. Maude was nowhere in sight, but Caliban was across the room, holding a page of her play to the light of the fire. His eyes were intent, his brow slightly creased—and he was quite obviously reading the page.
Quietly she closed the door behind her and folded her arms on her chest as her heart began to beat faster.
She lifted one eyebrow. “Who are you?”
Chapter Four