Jade Star (Star Quartet 4)

Slowly he raised his hands and pressed the handkerchief more firmly against his eyes. “I think, Sam, that my usefulness here is over.”

“Is there much pain, my boy?” Sam Pickett asked quietly.

“It’s lessening . . . a bit. Jules probably got most of the fragments, but . . .”

Jules stared at him, hugging his side. “You’re soaking wet,” she said, her mind refusing to accept what she knew to be true. “We’ll go home, Michael, and you can have a hot bath and—”

Saint knew she was trying to keep a firm hold on herself, and he admired her vastly at that moment. “Jules,” he interrupted her quietly, “get Thackery and Thomas—”

“Not Thomas,” Samuel said. “He accompanied some of the wounded men to the hospital after I assured him you were all right. The black man, is that Thackery?”

“Yes, it is. We’re not going to lose anybody, are we, Samuel?”

“Perhaps the one man you did your damnedest to save. I’m not certain yet. Maybe old Bunker will escape with a clear conscience after all, but the foundry’s gone. Now, Saint, let’s get you home.”

“Michael,” Jules said, her voice high and taut. “Yes, we must go. You’re going to catch a chill.”

He turned at the sound of her voice and said very quietly, “Hush, sweetheart. Everything will be fine.”

He paused a moment, squeezed his wife’s hand, heard her gulp down a sob.

Dr. Samuel Pickett said quietly, “I’ve got my buggy. Mrs. Morris, stay with him until I bring it around.”

24

Jules was squeezing his hand so hard it hurt. If Saint had been able, he would have tried to reassure her. He said nothing. He was scared. The searing pain was lessening in his eyes, but he knew as well as Sam Pickett that even those pale flashes of white he’d seen briefly could fade forever, leaving him completely and forever blind. Dear God, a blind doctor would be good for absolutely nothing.

The buggy lurched into a muddy rut, and he groaned, unable to keep it inside. He felt Jules lightly stroke her fingertips over his forehead and gently ease him a bit so that his head was firmly pillowed in her lap. He heard her say gently, “Everything will be fine, love, I promise.”

He would have smiled, but it required all his concentration to control the damnable pain. She was sounding like him. Soothing and in control.

The buggy finally came to a halt, and Sam’s voice said, “Mrs. Morris and I are going to help you down now, Saint. Just hang on a bit longer.”

He said nothing, allowed them to assist him into the house. It seemed odd in the extreme to be stretched out on his own examining table.

“Now, my boy, I’m going to take off the bandages. It’s likely that you’ve still got some fragments in your eyes, and I’ve got to get them out. Then . . .” Sam paused.

“Then,” Saint finished, “we’ll bandage me back up and pray.”

“Yes,” said Sam.

Saint listened to Sam give Jules instructions, and forced himself to lie quietly. When Sam unwound the handkerchief about his eyes, he blinked and opened them.

“Anything, Saint?”

“Same as before. Pale white, like hoary ghosts from my boyhood, and that’s it.”

“That’s as much as we can expect and you know it. You’ve got to hold very still now, as I’m certain you well know. Mrs. Morris, please hold his head very steady for me, and move that light closer.”

Saint didn’t move, didn’t utter a sound when Sam, with a light touch he appreciated, removed more fragments from his eyes. “It looks to me like the cornea is cut, but of course that’s to be expected. As for retina damage, impossible to tell. Now, Saint, I’m going to wash out your eyes again.”

“You didn’t tell me one damned story to keep my mind occupied,” Saint said when his eyes were firmly bandaged again.

“I should have, I’m sorry,” Jules said, her voice stricken.

“Don’t be a fool, Jules,” Saint said, turning toward the sound of her voice. “It was Sam’s duty, not yours.”

“Mrs. Morris,” Sam Pickett said, “would you please fetch your husband some tea?”