Ring. Sister. Piano (Book 4 of The Powder Trail)

Chapter Two: Fever

It was the first thing he thought of when he woke again – she was alive. He knew that even before he remembered that he was alive. But it was a thought that wouldn't go any further, and not just because of the pain. Every time he tried to think about what it would actually mean, his brain shut down. He couldn't think about seeing her again, or the state he would be in if he did. And the poisons of the last seven months were still sloshing around in his head. All that pain and anger had made him a different person – it had practically carved him a new face. Would it be the same for her? Would they still recognize each other?

No, he couldn't think about it. It was too big. It would hurt too much if it was taken away. She was alive. He couldn't count on it – he couldn't make any decisions based on it – he just knew it with every fibre of his being. And while he knew it, he couldn't lie still. He had to find out about it before he could find out how he felt about it.

When the world swam into focus, he saw a canopy of amulets above him – crystals and moons and arcane symbols hanging eerily still, without a breath of motion. There was something wrong about that. It was like seeing the flat sails of a ship in windless waters. Amulets were supposed to sway and clink and rustle. But there was also something familiar about it. When had he last seen motionless amulets?

Oh. Back in Lily Hamilton's room. Dangling in the window where she, too, had dangled. And the idea that she hadn't swayed either – that her body had been perfectly becalmed by the time anyone thought to look for her.

Why was he thinking about that? Because she hadn't come back, and Ellini had? Because he'd seen Sam recently, and felt guilty?

Anyway, there was no time to go into it – although it looked as though Sergei had forced time onto him, because he could feel thick leather straps around his wrists. They wouldn't have inconvenienced him under normal circumstances, but now every motion was slow and clunky, as though his body was refusing to talk to him.

The pain wasn't actually that bad. Presumably some kind of anaesthetic was keeping it at bay. But what he felt instead – what filled up his world from horizon to horizon – was a vast, creeping sense of wrongness. It is wrong, his body said. It is wrong to feel as though you might crack open if you breathe too deeply. It is wrong to be able to feel blood seeping through innumerable fissures in your skin. It is wrong for your insides to be so perilously close to the outside.

As a soldier – and, more than that, as a former student of Robin Crake's – he had thought he'd got over this feeling. He had thought he'd learned to treat his body with the irreverence it deserved. But this was different. This was a sliver away from death, and all his instincts had been primed to avoid death. Every voice in his body was screaming at him to lie still and get better – except the one insistent voice, located somewhere between his stomach and his crotch, which was screaming at him to find Ellini. It was all alone, but surprisingly loud.

"What did you give me for the pain?" he asked, assuming that Sergei was too clever to leave him unattended again. "It wasn't opium, was it?"

"No," said Sergei's voice, from somewhere close. "Ether. I thought you would not be anxious to try opium again."

"I'm extremely anxious to try opium again, that's the problem."

"Well, that's one problem we've avoided. But perhaps it's the only one..."

"Why did you save me?" said Jack. He didn't waste time craning around to look for him. Any kind of movement jarred the stitches, and there was no point looking at Sergei when you spoke to him. He never gave anything away.

"My son asked me to."

Jack smiled up at the amulets. "He's a good boy."

"Don't you tell me he's a good boy. You tried to use him to torture me."