“The journal describes them as marks like branches of a tree. Is that what they look like?” Saffron sat up further. Her skirt, the same shade of blue as the lines, slid up her knee an inch more. “Oh my, they really do look like that, don’t they?”
The fascination in her voice was off-putting. He stood and retrieved the journal, eyes rushing over the page, trying to make sense of the indecipherable words.
“Here, let me,” Saffron offered. “Dr. Maxwell’s handwriting would make anyone lose their mind.”
He handed her the dilapidated journal, and she made no movement to take it from him. She smiled slightly and looked to where her hand lay at her side. Blue tinged her fingers. “You’ll have to hold it for me.”
Alexander moved his chair a few inches and sat, propping the book up in his hands so she could see it. He was close enough to see her individual eyelashes, like when they were cloistered together in the hall during the dinner party.
Saffron cleared her throat, those dark eyelashes fluttering. “It says, ‘The blue lines mark the progression of the paralysis, receding when movement returns.’ So, you see, the marks show exactly how severe the paralysis is, and will fade when I regain movement. Which should be soon.”
The bright enthusiasm in her words didn’t quite disguise the tension in her eyes. She was afraid, just as Alexander was. Just the word “paralysis” might prove to be too much for him.
She must have seen he was unconvinced, because she added a touch sardonically, “I don’t think either of us particularly wants to explain to a doctor or the police why I’m suffering from poisoning while we’re both involved in a poisoning investigation.”
As if that would stop him from getting her assistance. When he opened his mouth to object, she added, “And I’ll remind you that I didn’t ask you—”
Her words were stymied at the fierce glare he gave her. “Give me one good reason not to retrieve a doctor right now.”
Saffron frowned up at him. “If the lines reach my neck, I’ll agree to you calling for a doctor.”
“If they reach your neck,” Alexander bit out, “that means the entirety of your body would be paralyzed. I’m not waiting until then to get help.”
He attempted to pace around the room, but it was impossible with the clutter.
“Look at the lines now,” Saffron said. They’d reached her calves and wrists, staining her fair skin with blue. “They’ve progressed, as has the sensation of coolness and paralysis. It’s going exactly how it said it would. Given how little xolotl I consumed, and that I, er, got rid of it immediately after—”
“You’re basing your hypothesis on incredibly unreliable information.”
“That has thus far proven to be exactly accurate,” Saffron said. Her shoulders shrugged, and Alexander realized she must have been attempting to throw her hands in the air with exasperation. “How long has it been—ten minutes? Fifteen? Give me half an hour more. If it’s still progressing and not receding, then I will agree to call for a doctor.”
CHAPTER 7
The incessant hum of anxiety Alexander hadn’t felt in months had returned with full force when he watched Saffron collapse, and it had barely eased when she woke up and croaked for the bin. Arguing with her had only goaded it further. So, under the guise of considering her suggestion to wait for the doctor, he gave in to his urges and began to tidy. Careful, methodical movements while he brushed the glass from the floor onto a piece of paper with a makeshift paper brush; the press of his hand against cotton as his handkerchief soaked in the yellow drops of xolotl infusion dotting the surface of the desk; crisp papers shuffling into piles; the steady slide and thunk of books on and off the shelf as he put them into order.
All the while, Saffron sat silently, occasionally checking on the progress of the blue lines. His eyes flicked to her bare legs often, watching the vine-like blue markings travel higher and higher.
When he could no longer put off his need of the lavatory, Alexander murmured something about needing to step out, and Saffron suggested he lock her in the office with the keys from her handbag. “That way no one will come upon me lounging on the couch barefoot,” she said with a tight smile.
He didn’t know whether or not to be amused by the carefully folded pair of stockings he had to push past to find the keys.
The halls had quieted in the half hour they’d spent locked up in Dr. Maxwell’s office, so it was impossible to miss the guffawing of Dr. Berking. He was thundering up the stairs Alexander had just passed on his way back to Dr. Maxwell’s office, his voice carrying through the tiled passage.