London Nights

Chapter 5 - Rehabilitation

My deepest apologies for the lack of updates. Again.

Nevertheless, please enjoy! (●^^●)

-----------------------------------------------------

The ceiling looks different, was the very first thing that I had deciphered when I woke up.

The walls and the ceiling were pure white, unlike the manor's familiar browns and beiges. The thought of the manor almost made me feel homesick.

My eyes landed upon a small table on my right, lined with various kinds of pills, aspirins, lozenges, and medicine bottles on top of it. I assumed that my brother and I had devoured those in our sleep—I could still taste the lingering droplets of medicine in my mouth.

To my left was Jones, lying down unconscious on a white bed of laundry-fresh sheets with a blanket of similar color to the room walls draped over his body. Unsurprisingly, I found myself in the same position, with my torso wrapped in thick bandages. My fingers ghosted over it, knowing better than to touch it carelessly.

"I see you're awake."

I turned my head to face a young nurse who had her blond hair tied in a neat bun at the back of her head. She smiled softly as my gaze landed on her.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, placing a tray of food on my bedside table.

I stayed quiet for awhile, unable to describe how I was feeling at that time. I decided to answer the first thing that came to mind.

"My body's aching," I mumbled, yet loud enough to be heard.

"If that's the case, you shouldn't move too much, Miss Rainlord," she advised. I watched as she smoothed the creases on my blanket and did the same to Jones'. "Keep in mind that getting stabbed is not something to be taken lightly."

She continued, "But your case here is different." Her eyes showed amazement as she talked. "You managed to stay alive even after losing so much blood—a miracle, in my opinion."

It's not a miracle, I wanted to say. Rainlords have never died from getting stabbed, and certainly that trait will continue for generations to come. Jones and I will ensure that in the meantime.

I toyed with my bandages absentmindedly, running my fingers to and fro the fraying ends. "What about my brother?" I asked again. "How is he?"

She glanced at my brother's sleeping form. "He seems to have lost more blood than you have, but he'll be fine."

Of course he would be. For the sake of the Rainlord history, he had to be.

All of a sudden I was fully aware of where I was right then, and another question bubbled from my throat. "Just who," I started, plainly curious, "brought us here?"

The nurse's gaze rose to the ceiling, as if trying to remember. "A girl, perhaps around your age or a tad older. And judging from her accent, she appears to be Scottish."

A Scottish girl, alone, in this part of London? Unheard of.

Nevertheless, it managed to pique my interest. "What did she look like?"

"She has hazel eyes and the same hazel hair tied into a ponytail. About a few inches taller than you—perhaps around 17 to 18 years old."

She frowned lightly, seemingly peeved. "She was very hysteric about you and your brother's condition and had forced the doctors to immediately tend to you without further delay, threatening us if we didn't."