The Deepest Night by Shana Abe Read Free Book Online

anyway?”
    “Kitchens,” I whispered. “Sorry.”

Chapter 4
    There was no taking tea after that. There was a great deal of fussing from the doctor when he finally showed up, and Mrs. Westcliffe attempting valiantly to pull herself together, and Armand hanging back by me, ensuring that he stood between the duke and me no matter which of us moved.
    More doctors arrived, some nurses, everyone exclaiming over the news about Aubrey and worrying over Reginald’s “mild fit.” The tea service His Grace’s personal physician had carried into the cell sat forgotten on the side table by the door.
    I edged closer to it. I snatched a biscuit from a plate when no one was watching and ate it in one bite.
    Almost no one had been watching.
    “Shortbread,” noted Armand, and grabbed two more. “How reassuringly orthodox.” He handed me one, broke the other absently into pieces in his hand. His face was still strained and white.
    “Don’t destroy it.” I wiped at my lips. “Give it to me if you don’t want it.”
    His palm opened. The biscuit had gone to crumbs.
    “You’re bleeding,” he said quietly. “Your arm. The wound. I can smell the blood.”
    Of course he could. Dragon senses, supernaturally sharp. I could smell it, too, but my sleeve was loose enough that so far the blood didn’t show.
    I kept my voice as low as his. “It’s fine. Don’t say anything.”
    “Lora, it needs attention.”
    “Yes. Back at the school. First thing.”
    His mouth tightened. “Look—”
    “I’m not going to let these people touch me,” I whispered, vehement. “I’m not going to their medical chamber and I’m not letting them remove my blouse and I’m not letting them lay a finger on me, I don’t care if my arm festers and falls off , so kindly shut up .”
    Mrs. Westcliffe had recovered enough to notice us standing there, our heads together, my heated cheeks. She began to approach.
    “Only if you come to me tonight,” Armand said swiftly. “At Tranquility.”
    “Fine!”
    “Lord Sherborne—” the headmistress began.
    “No,” he cut in at once, turning to her. “I’m merely Lord Armand again.”
    She stopped before us, blinking. “Oh—yes! Forgive me. Lord Sherborne is—that is, I’m so pleased that your brother has regained his—er …” She flattened a hand against the base of her throat, then tried again. “Lord Armand, I fear our visit has overtaxed your father. Miss Jones and I should leave.”
    He gave her a short bow. “Allow me to drive you back to the school, ma’am.”
    Westcliffe and I exchanged a look; whatever our differences, we both knew how Armand drove. “A most chivalrous offer, my lord, but we couldn’t possibly—”
    “I insist. It’ll be faster than the train, and I could use the companionship.”
    ”Oh,” she said again, defeated, and summoned a smile. “Why, then, we accept. Naturally.”
    Outside the madhouse, back in the cool May air and a lemony, waning light, the lawn a sheared carpet spread before us, I waited for him to hand Westcliffe into the front seat of the auto before muttering, “The train has chocolates .”
    “Surely my company is sweet enough,” he muttered in return, and helped me up into the high, uncomfortable backseat.
    Armand’s motorcars tended to be roofless and very, very fast. We weren’t dressed for a drive in the open air, so his lordship had politely presented his duster to Mrs. Westcliffe, who had sense enough to accept it. I had her wrap and mine around me, but the wind was relentless, and the dust from passing horses and carriages even more so.
    Armand needed the driving goggles to see; Westcliffe and I squinted at the land flying by, the outskirts of Bath swiftly unspooling into fields of grain and flocks of sheep, dogs and hedges and farmhouses.
    It was quicker than the train. And it was noisy enough that I didn’t have to endure any uncomfortable questions from Westcliffe (yet), or even worry about holding up my end of a