Page 61 of Thus with a Kiss I Die
“If only.”
Cal looked around. “My father . . . ?”
“He speaks with Nonna Ursula, commanding her to come to consciousness.”
“She can’t hear him,” he said testily.
“Perhaps, Cal, she can now hear him better than she can hear us.”
“Someone from within,” he murmured. “Someone she trusts.”
“Such treachery strips away all our security and leaves us brokenhearted and suspicious.”
“This explains why no one saw the invader enter or leave through the window. He slithered in and out through the door.”
I hated to throw acid on an already burning pain, but I had to ask. “How do we feel about Pasqueta, who conveniently left Nonna Ursula unprotected, and now claims to have seen a remorseful ghost slip from the room? And Old Maria, who slept through the clamor?”
In the face of such grim reality, his mouth lost its generous outline. “When you must leave Nonna alone, call Princess Isabella to stay with her. We don’t need to tell her more than that we—”
“That I sense improvement in Nonna when we speak to her,” I finished his thought.
“Do you?”
“What I sense is, Princess Isabella is getting discouraged by our lack of progress. She lingers in the corridor rather than come in to face the disheartening prospect of viewing Nonna slip further and further from us.”
“Yes, I too.” His gaze lingered on his grandmother, slack-jawed and unresponsive, and he returned to her side to pet her hand, lift it to his lips, and speak lovingly in her ear.
Elder watched his son. “Poor boy,” he whispered. “So much has been taken from you.”
I allowed Cal his moment, but time was of the essence. Grasping his hand, I pulled him toward a chair. “Strip down and let me see that shoulder.”
Irritably he said, “I didn’t say it was my shoulder.”
I wasn’t letting him get away with that. “Is theremorethan your shoulder?”
“Merely bruises.” It was an unwilling admission. “It was an all-out brawl.” He looked at his bloody knuckles, sat down, and eased off his jacket with a groan.
I unlaced his sleeve from his black shirt and that gave me a big enough gap in the linen to push it back and view the joint.Merely bruising?Maybe, but this was a dark, angry red. I put one hand on the joint—it was warm—and with the other took his wrist. “I’m going to move your arm for you. Don’t assist me, but do tell me where the worst of the pain is.”
“I don’t need you to make it hurtmore.”
I smiled into his face, all charm and chiding. “Don’t be a baby. In the end, I might be able to make it hurt less. You do want to know if something is broken, don’t you?”
“It won’t make any difference,” he said.
Of course not. When violence flared again, Verona’s prince had to go out and bring order to our world.
As I began to move the joint, he grunted and winced. “You were laughing with him.”
I concentrated on the inner workings of the shoulder, trying to discern anything loose or clicking or slipping. “Who?” I asked.
“Young Marcketti.”
I stopped in surprise. What had Cal seen? Heard? I have no idea how long he stood there and listened, but I could remember nothing but Lysander’s heartfelt declaration that if he couldn’t have me, only the prince was worthy. Surely, that was okay? Then Lysander teased and I laughed and . . .
“Lysander’s funny. And he’s not that much younger than you.”
“He seems younger.” Cal gasped as I took the arm back.
