Smoke: A Novel by Vyleta Dan

Author:Vyleta, Dan [Vyleta, Dan]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9780385540162
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2016-05-23T16:00:00+00:00

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS

When Charlie wakes the room is flooded with daylight. He senses rather than sees it, has trouble opening his eyes. His body does not follow orders, lies leaden under the down bedding, a stranger to his will. He mutters in surprise and finds his tongue sitting dry and heavy in his mouth, so swollen he has to breathe around it. No sound will come. As he struggles against his eyelids’ weight, a soothing voice sounds close by.

“Easy now, Mr. Cooper, take your time. There was a sleeping draught in the milk. You were in need of rest. Here, I will help you sit up.”

The dark shadow of Renfrew bends over him, slips a second pillow behind Charlie’s back, then sits down again on the stool he has drawn up to Charlie’s bedside.

“There, that’s better.”

Renfrew reaches forward with a washcloth and wets Charlie’s lips.

“You must be quite parched. It is one of the draught’s side effects.”

Embarrassed at being the subject of such mothering, Charlie once again attempts to shake off his drowsiness or at any rate take charge of his limbs. It is then he realises his wrists are manacled to the bed frame with leather restraints. A vision of Baron Naylor shoots through him, strapped onto his bed, smoking darkly in the attic. It helps in its way.

Fear bids Charlie wake.

“Ah, I think you are coming round now. Very good. I was starting to be afraid I had given you too much. It’s gone ten o’clock. Not that it would have been a day for travelling. The snow has been coming down thick and fast. I imagine the road is quite impassable.”

Renfrew places a hand onto Charlie’s forehead, checking his temperature, then slips a finger between Charlie’s wrists and the restraints, making sure they are not cutting into Charlie’s skin. The finger lingers a moment, takes Charlie’s pulse. Throughout, Renfrew’s movements are unhurried, efficient. He would have made a good doctor, or better yet, a surgeon, excising rotten flesh with a steady hand. His task accomplished, Renfrew straightens, smoothes his necktie and collar, and looks Charlie straight in the eye.

“I must ask you again, Mr. Cooper, to relate to me all the events that led to your being attacked in a coach heading from Lady Naylor’s estate on the morning after New Year’s Day, and all events that have transpired since. We need a full accounting. It is, I’m afraid, a matter of national significance.”

Charlie attempts to answer, but his tongue is not working.

“Water,” he croaks, “water.”

Renfrew sadly shakes his head.

“Let us talk first, Mr. Cooper. Here, I will moisten your lips again. It might be small consolation, but I drank a measure of salt water this morning and have not taken anything since. There, on the windowsill: I have poured us two glasses. Let us drink together, Mr. Cooper, and quench this infernal thirst. Once we have finished our conversation. What do you say?”

But Charlie can only stare at him and struggle against the restraints.

“You’ve gone mad,” he manages at last, his mouth so raw it comes out as a whisper.

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