Bisclavret

Chapter 6

Pain, I'm learning, is a jealous mistress. One moment she might let the bliss of unconsciousness take you, but the next, she wants you back.

I come to moving through a hallway filled with soft candlelight. I'm either floating or being carried. From the agony lancing through my shoulder, I'm still in the world of the living, so that means it's the latter. I crane my head up and see the familiar visage of Jacques.

Feeling me move, he glances down and meets my eyes. "You fell asleep. The doctor's arrived."

I nod and turn my head away, taking in our surroundings. In front of us is a broad back, belonging, I must assume, to our host. Surely there can't be another man of such stature within this house. He moves on silent feet with more grace than a man his size should possess. The way he walks is almost predatory, a rolling glide like he's using different muscles than the rest of us.

I slide my gaze past him, unnerved by the enthralling way he moves. Instead, I take in the wealth on display in the corridor. The walls are papered in red and gold damask. Beneath our feet, a long Persian carpet extends nearly the length of the hall. Tables, gilded chairs, massive urns, and all the other cluttered decoration that is so fashionable these days is spread out down the hall. The walls are hung with oil paintings in gold gilt frames. At first, I think the paintings are nothing more than traditional hunting scenes, but something in the nearest one catches my eye, and I take a closer look.

Oh, it's a hunting scene, all right, but instead of victorious men standing beside their kills, it's wolves lording over the images. In one, three work together to bring down a bison. The next shows a large pack trailing a deer through a dense forest. Another shows a lone wolf howling at the moon. I've never seen paintings like these, where wild beasts are celebrated over the might of men, and they're so realistic that for a moment, it feels like their amber eyes track me as I pass.

I shudder and look away.

Lord Giroux pauses in front of a door and turns to us. "Here we are," he rumbles, pushing it open to let us precede him inside.

I don't look at him as Jacques carries me by, turning my focus to the room instead. The walls are done in forest green. Darkly stained shelves line them, stocked full with the gleaming, gold-embossed leather spines of books. It looks like a study, or what should be one. The furniture is pushed against the walls, including a massive, ornately carved mahogany desk. Leaning behind it in a corner are two rolled up rugs. In the center of the now cleared room, a heavy white sheet covers the floor, on top of which sits a long table, draped with another sheet, this one thinner.

"Ah, here is my patient," an unfamiliar but kind voice speaks.

It must be the doctor. I turn and find an aging man standing near a small table, on which I see the gleaming metal tools of his trade spread out. Beside him is a woman near his age, pulling more tools from a leather case. The man looks to be in his late sixties, with short silver hair. Spectacles sit on the bridge of his nose, framing blue eyes edged in laugh lines. The smile that splits his face as he comes around the table is welcoming and warm.

"I'm Doctor Roschfile," he says, his voice pitched low in a gentle way that's likely meant to put me at ease. "You must be Isabelle, the brave young woman we've heard so much about."

I nod, wondering how long I was asleep. Long enough for the story of our journey to spread, it would seem.

"It's nice to meet you, sir," I manage as gracefully as I can while being held like an invalid.

"Set her down over here, please, Lord Descoteaux," he instructs Jacques, motioning to the sheet-draped table.

Jacques does as he's told and is careful as he lets my legs go, steadying me with his hands as I find my balance. I manage a weak smile up at him in thanks before pain distorts it into a grimace. He looks worried as he regards me.