The Holmes-Dracula File Fred Saberhagen (feel good fiction books txt) 📖

   “I’ll myke some tea.” Coolly practical, she left the door ajar and went off to what must have been the kitchen. In the middle distance he could hear her, now pouring water, now cutting bread. Now came the subtle sound of a knifeblade spreading out a heap of jam. His imagination’s picture of the rich red stuff brought on a wave of hunger, mixed with a little nausea.

   The irrelevant smell of tea soon took form on the night air. The old man strained his limbs again and then lay back, unable to budge his iron bonds, hissing his exhaustion. Good God but they were strong. Had this bed-cart been constructed to confine a mad gorilla?

   Here Sally came back to him, replenished tea-tray in her hands. It was now so dark that she must grope her way, and she had removed her mask, which must have been an annoyance to keep on for hours and hours. The old man could now plainly see her face, which would have been pretty were it not for a great birthmark, covering her whole right cheek and jaw, more strawberry than the stuff which she had spread upon the bread—and were it not, of course, for the corollary of this disfigurement, a set of resignation in all her facial muscles, the look of bitter, sullen surrender to all the world’s foul ugliness.

   She felt secure, of course, that in this lightless room he’d never see her face. Meanwhile he watched the innate and unconscious grace with which, even unable to see the way, she moved across the room.

    “ ’Ere. Can you see it?” She put the tray down where it had been before, upon the stand that branched out from the bed.

   “My hand could find it in the dark. Alas, I cannot move a finger.”

   Sally went away and groped for the stiff chair and brought it back, sat down in it an arm’s length distant. Perhaps I have exaggerated the room’s darkness; there must have existed a little ghost of light, oozing from the shaded window at her back, to fall across his bed. No doubt she could see him at least faintly, while believing that her own face was fully hidden from his eyes.

   She tore off a morsel of the bread and held it toward his lips. “ ’Ere. It’s crusty, but you ’as a good mouthful o’ teeth for an old ’un. I could see that when you first spoke t’ me.”

   His neck muscles reflexively turned his head away. It was not red jam that he hungered for. “I thank you deeply, but I find I cannot eat.”

   “Ah.” There was again some gentleness in her voice. Sally popped the morsel into her own mouth. “Want some tea?” She spoke as one who does not wish to dine alone.

   “Where am I, girl?”

   “You’ve ’ad a knock on the ’ead, you ’ave. So you’re—in ’ospital.”

   “But in what city?” Although of that, at least, he had no doubt.

   “How ’bout some tea: ’Spect I’ll have it meself if you won’t.”

   “Thank you, but no. Some water, if you please,” he added, so he should not seem too strange. With water his old guts could cope, he felt.

   “Right-o.” She held the glass for him, while being careful, he noted, to touch neither his gray lank hair that straggled before his face, nor his clothing, nor his skin. He managed to raise his head enough to drink whilst his arms stayed bound down. Water slid toward his stomach, where it lay unabsorbed, like liquid glass.

   “Girl…” He lay back, blowing through wet lips. “What shall I call you?”

   “Never you mind.” Then there occurred a thought that pleased her privately. “You can call me ‘Miss.’ ”

   “Miss. Will you then be kind enough to tell an old man why he is being held a prisoner?” Night deepened; he was waking up. The words had begun to dance along naturally, without thought on the old man’s part. The finger-movements of a violinist, tuning a new instrument, whose hands over the long, long years have cradled a thousand others like it.

   “I told you, yer in ’ospital.” Making herself cold and abrupt was not something that came naturally to Sally. She had practiced for enough years, though, to do it well. She could be ruthless. Now she was eating, quite neatly, the rest of the bread and jam he had refused.

   “Miss. Please.” The old man played for pity. She could be ruthless but it did not suit her, and he supposed he must look shriveled and senile as he lay bound before her. Her own dear father was somewhere tonight…but one had to be careful along that route. Across the room the cracked fragment of a mirror leaned upon a high shelf close to the chest of drawers, but the angle was wrong for him to be able to see himself in it. Besides…

   Besides what? Something important had come and gone before he could grasp it. So much was gone, so much remaining was now jumbled, broken, useless, inside this savage persisting pain that felt as if it must deform his head. Anyhow she had called him old, and there was his gray hair twisting before his eyes. And he could see his own hands, and thought that they looked old. Wrinkled and gray-furred on the backs, yes, old-looking despite the strong long nails and the incongruous firm plumpness of the palms that so contrasted with the leanness of his wrists where they emerged from newly dirty cuffs.

   “Why am I shackled, Miss? I have done no one any harm.”

   “You gets violent at times. Out o’ yer ’ead, so t’ speak. That’s why you ’as t’ be restrained a bit.” She had a relish for the jam that she was finishing, but not for lies.

   He would now strike with the name, and see what