The pile of papers and books he’d shoved off the couch to make room for her wasn’t helping his anxiety. The broken glass taunted him from across the room. His fingers itched to clean it up. In fact, this room made his whole body vibrate with the need to fix the enormous mess that was everywhere. But he didn’t have to clean it now. He didn’t.
After a few long minutes, Saffron spoke in a soft, croaking voice, “What’s the time?”
Alexander shook himself from his calming fantasy of sweeping the mess out of the window. “I won’t be party to this absurd experiment, Saffron.”
Saffron grimaced, her eyes still closed. “Just write it down on the paper.”
That placid order nearly undid all the work he’d done to keep calm. He was out of his mind with worry, and she was acting like nothing was wrong. His words came out harshly. “You can’t be serious. You can’t experiment on yourself. It isn’t safe.”
“You don’t need to rage at me,” Saffron mumbled, stirring a bit from her stupor. She opened her eyes and glanced around. “Did you take down the time? If not, give me the paper, and I can.”
“I should tear that blasted paper up.”
“Alexander—”
Temper getting the better of him, Alexander glared down at her. “What is it? To save Dr. Maxwell? It’s being handled by the police. To prove yourself? I understand that it’s hard to be a woman in academia—one that has ambitions—but this seems a stupidly dangerous way to go about it. Why didn’t you just take the bloody journal to the police?”
Saffron fixed him with a weary look of disdain that he wouldn’t have thought her capable of. “The police suspect that Cynthia Henry was poisoned by the xolotl vine. They’ve taken all of Dr. Maxwell’s research, but I’m absolutely sure there was nothing in it depicting actual accounts of poisoning. That journal provides a decades old secondhand account recorded by the very man they believe is responsible. The police would never actually test it out on someone. I dosed myself with xolotl so I didn’t have to see Dr. Maxwell imprisoned because of insufficient evidence.” This speech seemed to tire her out, as she breathed heavily and somehow went even paler. She didn’t relent, however, and with a tremulous voice, added, “I can’t lose him. I won’t let it happen.”
Alexander stood up, pushing his hair through his hands. She was right about the police not trusting the contents of the journal, and right that they wouldn’t test xolotl on someone to find out if the symptoms listed were accurate. But it was still absurdly dangerous that she’d taken it herself.
“I should really summon a doctor,” Alexander muttered, half to himself.
Saffron blinked up at him, the brilliant blue of her eyes stark in the whiteness of her face. “Please, Alexander. The journal says exactly what is going to happen, and it’s been right so far. Intense pain followed by a brief loss of consciousness, vomiting, coldness and numbness in extremities—”
“What?” Alexander stared at her. “Numbness in your extremities?”
She nodded. “I suppose you didn’t get that far in the journal, then. I can’t move my hands, feet, or ankles. I assume it’ll be my legs, next.”
The admission was made with shocking detachment, as if she really did think this was just an experiment. He stared down at her, noticing for the first time that she wasn’t wearing stockings. Why, he couldn’t fathom. He’d absently noted her shoes were on the floor next to the glass.
“Damn it all, Saffron, you could be in serious danger. I’m calling for a doctor.” He moved toward the door.
“And what exactly will you say?”
Alexander stopped and matched her glare. “You’re not at all concerned that you can’t move?”
“Of course I’m concerned!”
His blood pressure spiking, Alexander pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed deeply before responding. “Then why are you arguing about retrieving a doctor?”
“Would you be kind enough to examine my feet and ankles, please?” Saffron asked politely, her expression infuriatingly calm.
Gritting his teeth, Alexander jerked his chair to the end of the couch, where Saffron’s slender limbs rested against the cushions and sat.
“What … what are these lines?” His eyes traced the blue lines streaking her pale toes. They were faint, no more than the press of veins against fair skin, so much so that Alexander thought for a moment that was what they were. But the pattern didn’t seem correct. The lines zigzagged like lightning bolts.