Page 3 of Magic Touch
While I'm sitting, my pain dulls to only an ache. I stretch my leg out in front of me to provide her better access, and the pain sharpens.
With graceful fingers, she opens the four buttons at my knee. A small silver ring around her pinky glints in the sunlight as she unties my garter and rolls down my stocking. After exposing my calf, she places her soft hand on my outer thigh.
Her touch isn't much different from that of my physician, but hers sets my body on fire. I should tell her to desist, but it's the last thing I want. Soon the evidence of my arousal will be obvious, but I can do nothing about that, short of storming out. And I long to be near her.
She stops at the scar a third of the way up my thigh. Strange heat and tingling encase the old wound. Her hands glow a shimmering sky blue. My instinct is to pull away.
"Wait, William. Do not move yet." Her voice is like a balm, soft yet commanding. Masses would follow this woman to their death if she asked it of them. Of this, I am certain as I remain in her kitchen with her capable and delicate hands on my bare skin.
The tingling intensifies. Pain follows, but it's muffled. Something moves inside my leg. It must be my imagination. Then I feel it again, and my knee jerks of its own accord.
My pulse thunders, and my leg heats as if on fire, but still the pain is tolerable. She has no knife or sharp object in her hand, but it's as if my skin is coming apart. There should be more pain. I know it on the deepest level, but everything I see and feel is strange and impossible.
Her full lips pull into a thin line, and her eyes meet mine and glow like stars on a clear night. Sweat beads on her forehead and upper lip, and her cheeks have gone pale. "I've nearly got it, William, just a bit more."
"Are you injuring yourself, Esme?" I have no right to use her given name, but she has her hand inside my breeches, and it seems some liberties should be allowed.
A slow smile pulls at her lips, which look rosier with her color drained from her face. "I thank you for your concern, but I will be fine."
She’s lying, and I tug my leg back, but her grip is firm, and her eyes glow brighter. A low mutter stills me as she sings, "Goddess sure and true, of this I ask, strength of will and power now to heal a hero good and proud. Let his pains be lifted. Let this need be gifted. Pledging willing vessel me, as I will so mote it be."
Light fills the kitchen, obscuring my vision. Fire swallows my leg from the inside, as if branding me with a hot iron.
The room returns to normal light, and I blink to adjust my sight. Warmth fills me.
Esme's hand remains on my leg. Then she draws a long breath and pulls away. She puts a bullet fragment on the table and leans back in her chair. Her skin is so pale she looks near death, and red rims her eyes. "It seems—" she draws a breath, "your surgeon—" another breath, "missed part of the bullet."
Staring at the bit of metal, I have no words for what I just saw. Magic is a thing of fantasies and children's stories. Yet it's hard to deny the evidence before me.
I look from the shrapnel to her sickly face. I have seen that same pasty look on the faces of dying soldiers on the battlefield. "Esme, what have you done?"
"I will recover." There is no confidence in her assurance, and as she attempts to stand, her legs collapse, landing her back in the chair.
Rising, I lift her from the chair. Even my worry can't completely shadow how soft and warm she is in my arms. "Where are your rooms?"
Eyes wide, she swallows hard. "The door there leads to stairs. I live above."
I follow her gaze to the dark wood door in the corner, then carry her up to a neat set of rooms with a sofa and two chairs. Another door ahead probably leads to her bedroom.
"Shall I put you in bed?" My heart pounds at the idea of being in her bedroom, but she is in need, and I want to help.
"Here in the sitting room will be fine." She points to the sofa.
Placing her on the cushion as if she might break in two, I'm filled with sorrow when I release her. "Can I get anyone for you?"
She shakes her head. "There is no one. If you would be kind enough to pour me some of that wine, I will be fine."
On a table at the far side of the room is a decanter and two small crystal glasses. Rushing to help however I can, I do as she asks and bring her the wine. It smells of something I don't recognize, and I suspect it is more than just wine. Some witches brew, perhaps.
As she sips, the color returns to her heart-shaped face. "How is your leg, sir?"
My concern for her is so all-encompassing, I didn't even notice that I carried her up a steep flight of stairs without pain. But in her cozy little sitting room, I flex my muscles, and only an echo of pain remains.
Elation floods me, and a blue light surrounds me. I'm glowing the same color as her hands when she had them on my leg. Inside my chest, something familiar rises like a bird trying to escape its cage.
Esme's eyes widen as she stares. Her voice is breathy and perhaps fearful. "William, please sit."
Not wishing to be the object of her trepidation, I sit in one of the two gold-and-brown striped chairs and examine my glowing hands. Not possible. I close my eyes and know it will be gone when I open them. "What is happening?"
