Devil in Spring (The Ravenels 3)
“He’s in a difficult position,” Gabriel said. “Accusing government officials of conspiring in terrorism plots with violent radicals generally isn’t good for a man’s health.”
Pandora frowned in worry. “Gabriel . . .” She was forced to pause as an irresistible yawn overtook her. “Do you really think there’s some connection between Mr. Ransom and my family?”
“It would be a strange coincidence,” he admitted. “But there were moments now and then when I saw a hint of something familiar in one of his expressions or gestures.”
“Yes, I noticed that too.” She rubbed her eyes. “I liked him. Despite what he said, I still hope we’ll see him again someday.”
“We might.” Gabriel pulled her into his lap, settling her comfortably. “Rest against me. Soon we’ll be home, and I’ll put you to bed.”
“Only if you come to bed with me.” She reached up to touch his lips with her fingertip, and tried to sound seductive. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
“I appreciate the thought,” he said, sounding amused, “but you’re already half-asleep.”
“I’m not tired,” Pandora insisted, feeling a surge of love for him, more searing emotion than her body could contain. He was her partner, lover, and husband—everything she hadn’t known she’d always wanted. “My brain wants to stay awake.”
“You can barely keep your eyes open,” he mocked gently. “I’d rather wait until morning, when there’s half a chance of mutual participation.”
“I’ll show you participation,” she threatened. “I’ll ravish you. I’ll wear the flesh from your bones.”
“Easy, little pirate.” Gabriel smiled and smoothed her hair until she relaxed against him. “There’s time enough for that. I’m yours tonight and forever, through joy, adversity, and the thousand natural shocks of life.” His voice turned irresistibly soft, like raw velvet. “But for now all I want is to hold you, Pandora . . . my heart, my slow waltz, my sweet fate. Let me watch over your dreams tonight . . . and in the morning I’ll worship you as you deserve. What do you say to that?”
Yes. Oh, yes. Worship sounded nice. Sleep sounded nice. Pandora was suddenly too tired to utter a word, her mind drifting into an agreeably warm, blanket-soft darkness, while his arms cradled her close. She felt him whisper against her bad ear, but this time she knew exactly what the words were . . . and she fell asleep with a faint smile.
Epilogue
December 6, 1877
“Hold still,” Garrett Gibson murmured, gently pulling at Pandora’s earlobe as she positioned the tip of a steel auriscope tube in her ear. She squinted through an eyepiece into a microscopic magnifying lens, while Pandora sat with her head resting sideways on a leather table.
So far during the examination, they had discovered that Pandora’s left ear could detect the ticking of a watch a half-inch away and a raised voice at six feet, although she couldn’t hear a low voice at any distance.
Still holding the auriscope in Pandora’s ear, Garrett reached for a pencil, and sketched a quick diagram. “The ear drum is called the tympanum,” she murmured. “I can see the ragged perforation from the childhood injury, and some scarring from chronic inflammation. The tympanum is constantly replaced by the reproduction of cells, just like skin, so this type of perforation usually heals quickly. However, there are cases such as yours where it doesn’t, especially when a severe infection accompanies the initial injury.” Carefully she withdrew the tube, and Pandora sat up to face her.
“Is there anything that can be done?” Pandora asked.
“Since the condition has persisted for so many years, I wouldn’t expect to recover the hearing completely. However, I think we can bring about some substantial improvement, as well as drastically reducing or even eliminating the tinnitus and vertigo.”
Pandora nearly quivered with excitement. “Truly?”
“We’ll start you on a daily rinse of antiseptic solution in your ear to encourage healing. After a week of that, I’ll have you come in for another appointment, and we’ll apply nitrate of silver to the edges of the perforation, to stimulate growth of new tissue.”
“How will you put it in there?”
“I’ll melt a tiny drop of the silver nitrate to the tip of a silver wire, and apply it in seconds. It won’t hurt at all. If for some reason this course of treatment doesn’t prove as effective as I expect, I’ll consult a colleague who is having some success at using collagen membrane patches to cover the perforated tympanum.”
“If you could make any difference at all, it would be . . .” Pandora paused, searching for the right word. “It would be magical!”
Garrett smiled. “There’s no such thing as magic, my lady. There’s only skill and knowledge.”
“Very well, I’ll call it whatever you prefer.” Pandora grinned at her. “But the result is the same.”
After her appointment at the clinic had concluded, Pandora walked next door to Winterborne’s, with Dragon following close behind her. It was Nicholas Day, when the store traditionally unveiled its annual Christmas tree under the soaring stained-glass dome over the central hall. People had traveled for miles to see the sixty-foot evergreen, every branch trimmed with magnificent figures and ornaments and swathed in glittering ribbons.
Cork Street was filled with throngs of Christmas shoppers laden with huge parcels and bags, and sticky children clutching cones of sugar-plums, macaroons, and other sweetmeats. Crowds massed around the department store’s lavish display windows, one of them featuring an artist painting Christmas cards that were sold inside, another decorated with toy trains chugging around miniature tracks. One of the more popular windows featured delicacies and confections from the store’s famed food hall, including a huge gingerbread carousel with a candy-paved roof, and gingerbread riders on gingerbread horses.