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and formidable person, and as a woman, you must surely have faced
longer odds and stiffer opposition in your endeavors than any mere
male. This offer is made from one craftsman to another, who sees one
who is struggling with inferior tools, and has the means to remedy
that lack.
Sincerely, Peter Scott
A tugging at her skirt interrupted her before she got to the
signature at the end of the letter. She looked down; there was
Charan, his eyes fixed on hers, an inkwell and pen clutched carefully
in one of his hands. Beside him were the mongooses, each with their
sharp teeth piercing a corner of a piece of her mono-grammed
stationary, Sia with a flat sheet of notepaper, Singhe with an
envelope, held high above the floor to avoid treading on it.
Torn between tears of relief and laughter, Maya gently took the
writing instruments from them. There was no doubt how they thought
she should reply.
Sia and Singhe had left neat little puncture marks in the corners of
the stationery. She wondered what he would make of that, but put pen
to paper, using the little table her breakfast had stood on as an
impromptu desk. She wrote swiftly, without thinking, for she knew if
she thought about what she must say, she would lose the courage to
say it.
Dear Sir; I accept your generous offer. Please come to my surgery
tonight, at eight o'clock, when the last of my patients will be seen
to. There; short and to the point. She signed it, Doctor M.
Witherspoon, and fanned the paper to dry the ink quickly. In moments,
it was folded, tucked into the envelope and sealed with one of the
gummed wafers she always kept in each envelope to avoid having to
search for them. She didn't recognize the area of the address, but
then again, she didn't know a great deal of London.
I've scarcely had time or opportunity to look about.
I haven't even seen any of my theatrical patients at their jobs, and
heaven knows they've offered me enough tickets, she thought wistfully
as she searched in the hall closet for a hat with a veil. She donned
the first that came to hand, pulling the concealing web down over her
features. This was another Fleet day; she would have to hurry to get
there in good time.
She stopped just long enough in her office for a stamp, making her
decision to see Peter Scott irrevocable. No one, having put a stamp
to a letter, has ever been known to change his mind about sending it,
she thought wryly, gathering up her umbrella and her medical bag and
going out the door. She was tempted to use a touch of magic to make
the eyes of passersby avoid her, for she felt ridiculously
conspicuous in the veil, but no one, not even people on her own
street who knew her, seemed to take any notice of the change in her
appearance. And now that she noticed, she was not the only lady to go
veiled in the street. There was dust to consider, and the gaze of
unwelcome strangers. The dust in particular was getting distinctly
unhealthy. It hadn't rained in several days, the air warmed with the
first hints of summer, and the "dust" was mostly dried and powdered
horse dung. She would have to make certain to brush off at the door
of the clinic, and insist that everyone tending patients wear clean
boiled aprons and smocks.
There was a postbox on the corner; the letter went in, and she moved
on. It was done, and she felt the letter leave her hand with a sense
of having put something in motion that it was not in her power to
stop. She sighed and quickened her pace. One thing was certain. If
this was a typical day at the Fleet, she wouldn't have time to think
about the meeting tonight, much less worry about it.
"Hello, old man-what are you brooding about? That's a perfectly
delightful bit of lamb you've been frowning at for the past minute,
and I'm sure it hasn't done anything to you."
Peter Scott looked up from his luncheon with a start. Almsley stood
just beside his table, looking at him with a particularly knowing
expression. As usual, Lord Peter was impeccably attired in a neat
morning suit of gray flannel, his cravat conservatively tied. He must
have checked his hat with his coat at the entrance to the club, since
he was bareheaded. Sunlight full of dust motes streamed in through
the nearest window and glinted off his pale hair, giving him a kind
of specious halo. Lord Peter Almsley was an excellent fellow, but no
one would ever accuse him of being angelic.
Peter Scott had decided to eat at the club today, rather than one of
the pubs or eateries local to his shop. He was out of the mood for
bustle and noise, and there certainly wasn't any of that here. If
anything, the atmosphere was positively drowsy. No one had spoken
above a murmur since he sat down.
"Almsley, I didn't know you were in town!" he said, rather inanely,
since it hadn't been more than two days since the meeting they had
all attended. Lord Peter took that as an invitation to join him, and
folded his thin limbs down onto the substantial mahogany chair across
the round table, a table which was far too large for a single diner.
A waiter appeared immediately, waiting attentively on Lord Peter's
wishes. Where did they come from? Scott had never been able to catch
one hovering, but the moment one wanted something, there was the
waiter, at one's elbow. It was a trifle unnerving.
"Exactly what he's having, but I'll give it proper attention,"
Almsley said. The waiter nodded, and betook himself off, vanishing [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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