On the other hand . . . boiled meat!
He laughed again, deciding he didn’t care. God, he was funny. How was it possible no one had ever told him he was funny before?
“Should we give him more laudanum?” Mrs. Wetherby said.
Oh, yes, please.
But they didn’t. Instead they tried to boil him again, with a bit more of the poking and stabbing for good measure. But after only a few more minutes, they were done.
The ladies started talking about laudanum again, which turned out to be incredibly cruel of them, because no one got out a glass or a spoon to feed him. Instead they poured the stuff right on his leg, which—
“Aaaargh!”
—hurt more than the brandy, apparently.
But the ladies must have finally decided they were through torturing him, because after some discussion, they untied his bindings and moved him to the other side of his bed, which wasn’t wet from all the hot water they’d been using to boil him.
And then, well . . . He might have slept for a bit. He rather hoped he was sleeping, because he was quite certain he’d seen a six-foot rabbit hopping through his bedchamber, and if that wasn’t a dream, they were all in very big trouble.
Although really, it wasn’t the rabbit that was so dangerous as much as the giant carrot he was swinging about like a mace.
That carrot would feed an entire village.
He liked carrots. Although orange had never really been one of his favorite colors. He’d always found it a little jarring. It seemed to pop up when he didn’t expect it, and he preferred his life without surprises.
Blue. Now, there was a proper color. Lovely and soothing. Light blue. Like the sky. On a sunny day.
Or Honoria’s eyes. She called them lavender—she had since she was a child—but they weren’t, not in his opinion. First of all, they were far too luminous to be lavender. Lavender was a flat color. Almost as gray as it was purple. And far too fussy. It made him think of old ladies in mourning. With turbans on their heads. He’d never understood why lavender was considered the appropriate step up from black in the mourning calendar. Wouldn’t brown have been more appropriate? Something more medium-toned?
And why did old ladies wear turbans?
This was really very interesting. He didn’t think he’d ever thought so hard about color before. Maybe he should have paid more attention when his father had made him take those painting classes so many years ago. But really, what ten-year-old boy wants to spend four months on a bowl of fruit?
He thought about Honoria’s eyes again. They really were a bit more blue than lavender. Although they did have that purplish touch to them that made them so uncommon. It was true—no one had eyes quite like hers. Even Daniel’s weren’t precisely the same. His were darker. Not by much, but Marcus could tell the difference.
Honoria wouldn’t agree, though. When she was a child she had frequently gone on about how she and Daniel had the same eyes. Marcus had always thought she was looking for a bond between them, something that connected them in a special way.
She’d just wanted to be a part of things. That was all she’d ever wanted. No wonder she was so eager to be married and out of her silent, empty home. She needed noise. Laughter.
She needed not to be lonely. She needed never to be lonely.
Was she even in the room? It was rather quiet. He tried again to open his eyes. No luck.
He rolled onto his side, happy to be free of those damned bindings. He’d always been a side-sleeper.
Someone touched his shoulder, then pulled up his blankets to cover him. He tried to make a little murmuring sound to show his appreciation, and he guessed he must have been successful because he heard Honoria say, “Are you awake?”
He made the same sound again. It seemed to be the only one he could make work.
“Well, maybe a little bit awake,” she said. “That’s better than nothing, I suppose.”
He yawned.
“We’re still waiting for the doctor,” she said. “I’d hoped he would be here by now.” She was quiet for a few moments, then added in a bright voice, “Your leg looks quite improved. Or at least that’s what my mother says. I’ll be honest—it still looks dreadful to me. But definitely not as dreadful as it did this morning.”
This morning? Did that mean it was afternoon? He wished he could get his eyes to open.
“She went to her room. My mother, I mean. She said she needed respite from the heat.” Another pause, and then: “It is quite hot in here. We opened the window, but only a very little bit. Mrs. Wetherby was afraid you would catch a chill. I know, it’s hard to imagine you could get a chill when it’s this hot, but she assures me that it’s possible.