An Unpracticed Heart

Chapter Four

"No."

It wasn't a word Hartley was accustomed to hearing with any sort of regularity. The last time someone had replied to him in the negative, he'd...

No, he couldn't recall any prior incident in which someone had used that single syllable with such finality. Of course, he had some difficulty recalling much of anything at the moment, except perhaps his name and the previous contents of his glass.

Oh, and the woman. He remembered her, as much as he could evoke the particulars of a dream several hours after waking. Even now, she had an illusory quality, the way the lines of her figure and face shifted and wavered beneath his gaze.

He blinked, clearing his vision somewhat, but a soft haze remained draped across everything in the room. The woman still stood there, near to the door, and for the first time he was able to distinguish her features, the details that had all remained a mystery to him the last time he'd seen her.

Her eyes drew him in. Like an anchor, giving him something to hold onto while his balance—or lack thereof—sought to undermine him. Her eyes were dark, nearly black in the light in the lamp. And they were large, or at least appeared to be against the paleness and fine features of her face.

"What did you say?"

His voice didn't sound like it belonged to him, even to his own ears. And then he wondered what had provoked him into asking such a stupid question, when he knew very well the reply he'd already been given.

"I'll not fetch you anything from that tray." Her own voice was low, edged with steel.

"And why..." He had to stop and catch his breath, and to sort out the jumble of words and phrases that had tangled into an incomprehensible knot inside his mind. "Whyever not? A simple favor, 's all. Have you no... no... ?" He couldn't elaborate on what she seemed to be devoid of, and so he shut his eyes against the overwhelming urge to sink down onto the floor, right where he stood.

"You appear to have done very well for yourself thus far," he heard her say, her words joining in with a brisk ringing in his ears.

"Well, that's... you're... I don't see why..." He wavered again, and wondered how much time he had left before the floor decided to rise up and smack into his face. But instead he felt a gentle touch on his shoulders, and then something possessed of even greater strength pulled him backwards, or maybe forwards, and then he was down, and there was softness beneath him, and the room ceased some of its infernal spinning.

The sharp rattle of a cup then, and something hot and steaming appeared beneath his nose. The smell that invaded his sinuses filled his head and forced his eyes the rest of the way open.

"Drink this." The woman held the cup only a few inches from his mouth.

He moved to swat the cup away, but her reflexes were quicker, and she snatched it from harm before a single drop of coffee could be spilled.

"Drink," she said again. "Whether of your own volition, or mine."

He couldn't ignore the threat in her words, and so he took the cup, the hot liquid nearly scalding his mouth as it flowed over his tongue.

She stood there as he drank, not speaking, with her hands clasped loosely in front of her apron. As soon as he finished, she took the cup from him, refilled it from a pot on a nearby table, and returned it to his unsteady hand.

"Who made the coffee?" he asked before he took another sip.

"I did."

"When... When did you...?"