Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,15

anything more than a quick shag that put them on the path to bigger and better things.

I shove my former self deep down, internally silencing Young Rowena’s fears and her tears and her everlasting pain. “Well?” I demand.

“I’ll take you to her,” the doctor says briskly, “but you’ll need to . . . You can’t be walking through the Palace like that.”

Because I have no other option, I allow Dr. Matthews to swap out my hospital gown for new clothes. He doesn’t offer information on where they came from and, to be perfectly honest, I don’t ask. Not now, when the chance to see Margaret is just minutes away.

He angles my head through a hole of material, then positions my arms so that I can awkwardly slip them into a pair of sleeves. Bandaged like a mummy or not, when the cotton skims exposed sections of skin, I let out a low hiss.

“The dressings and ointment will protect you from infection,” he says, not unkindly, “but there’s nothing to be done about the constriction to your—”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Yes, of course you will.”

I’m shuffled into a pair of loose joggers with a drawstring around my waist. Thin-soled hospital slippers, but no real shoes.

Then, and only then, does Dr. Matthews lead me from the room.

Pain accompanies my every step. It aches in my legs, from my tumble down the steps; in my abdomen and ribcage, from the beam that nearly crushed me; in my back, which burns as hot as the flames that almost took my life.

I’m as broken as I’ve felt for years.

Broken, but never defeated.

I grip Dr. Matthews’ arm like a lifeline. Turn my head from left to right, like a marionette puppet attached to invisible strings. In another world, I’d be given time to recuperate. But there’s nothing easy about this life that we’ve all been thrust into. Britain is a land on the brink of war where death is the only constant and pain the only engine that drives us forward into another day.

And, right now, I don’t know which pain is worse—the threat of bile that rears its ugly head when Dr. Matthews ushers me to the left, a little too abruptly, or the unsettling realization that my sight might be gone for good. An entire lifetime of being locked within the bowels of Hell, forced to crawl through its embers on my hands and knees, and now I’ll be stuck with Clarke dead and Margaret bleeding as my last visual memories.

Karma, probably, for the years that I spent at Father’s beck and call.

Lungs squeezing tight, I force one foot in front of the other and do my best not to limp.

Broken.

But never defeated.

“Here,” the doctor tells me, “let me get the door for you.”

My weight rocks backward as soon as Dr. Matthews releases me. Toes flexing in the flimsy hospital slippers, I grip the floor with everything that I am. Hold your ground. I last only seconds before I start to sway, and it takes every bit of strength not to reach out and look for something to stabilize my unsteady frame.

Do. Not. Fall.

A door clicks open, its base sweeping across tile or stone.

The doctor grasps my elbow, and I follow with my head down.

A shuffle of movement catches my ear, and I frown. There’s no way that Margaret could be . . .? No. Of course she isn’t walking. Bloody hell, I’m no doctor and even I know that she won’t be doing much of anything over the next few weeks, let alone just hours post-surgery.

But there’s no mistaking the subsequent shuffle of feet . . . or the chilling clank of chains.

My heart stampedes inside my chest. “Dr. Matthews, where are—”

“Who the bloody hell is she?” comes a nasally masculine voice.

“Your temporary cellmate.”

What?

The comforting hand on my elbow disappears, leaving me to stumble in my newfound darkness. And, for better or worse, I stumble. One foot tripping over the other, my body careening so sharply to the left that I ram into a wall with jarring force. A burst of metallic warmth fills my mouth as I bite the inside of my cheek.

“You can’t leave me here.” Shoulder jammed against the stone for leverage, the pads of my fingers dig deep into the grout. “Dr. Matthews, I don’t understand—”

“You shouldn’t have promised to scream.”

And then those clipped footsteps retreat, departing the way we came, with a farewell that leaves me chilled to the bone: “Play nice, Barker. I expect to find her alive when