Free The Saint-Germain Chronicles by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page B

matter what.” He broke off. “Maybe you’re right,” he concluded lamely, and stared at the fire. “I’ve been cold.”
    “In time you will be warm again, Mister Tree,” Saint-Germain said, and rose to pick up a silver bell lying on the table beside his violin case. “Would you like to lie down? You could use rest, Mister Tree.” His manner was impeccably polite but James sensed that he, would do well to cooperate with the suggestion.
    “Sure,” was James’ quiet response. “Sure, why not.”
    “Excellent, Mister Tree.” He rang the bell, and within two minutes a sandy-haired man of middle height, middle build, and middle age came into the room. “Roger, this is Madelaine’s great good friend, James Emmerson Tree. He has gone through an… ordeal.” One of Saint-Germain’s brows rose sharply and Roger recognized it for the signal it was.
    “How difficult for him,” Roger said in a neutral voice. “Mister Tree, if you will let me attend to you…”
    James shook his head. “I can manage for myself,” he said, not at all sure that he could.
    “Nonetheless, you will permit Roger to assist you. And when you have somewhat recovered, we will attend to the rest of it.”
    “The rest of it?” James echoed as he got out of the chair, feeling horribly grateful for Roger’s proffered arm.
    “Yes, Mister Tree, the rest of it.” He smiled his encouragement but there was little amusement in his countenance.
    “Yeah, I guess,” James responded vaguely, and allowed himself to be guided into the dark hallway.
     
    The bathroom was as he remembered it—large, white tiled and old fashioned. The tub stood on gilt crocodile feet and featured elaborate fixtures of the sort that had been in vogue eighty years before. James regarded it affectionately while Roger helped to take off his damaged clothing. “I’ve always liked that tub,” he said when he was almost naked. “It
is
something of a museum piece,” Roger said, and James was free to assume he agreed.
    The water billowed out of the taps steaming, but James looked at it with an unexpected disquiet. He was filthy, his muscles were stiff and sore, and there were other hurts on his body which he thought would welcome the water, but at the last moment he hesitated, suppressing a kind of vertigo. With care, he steadied himself with one hand and said to Roger, who was leaving the room, “I’m worn out, that’s what it is.”
    “Very likely,” the manservant said in a neutral tone before closing the door.
    As he stretched out in the tub, the anticipated relaxation did not quite happen. James felt his stiff back relax, but not to the point of letting him doze. He dismissed this as part of the aches and hurts that racked him. When he had washed away the worst of the grime, he looked over the damage he had sustained when he was thrown from the jeep. There was a deep weal down the inside of his arm. “Christ!” James muttered when he saw it, thinking he must have bled more than he had thought. Another deep cut on his thigh was red but healing, and other lacerations showed no sign of infection. “Which is lucky,” James remarked to the ceiling, knowing that he could never have come the long miles to Montalia if he had been more badly hurt. The other two reporters had not been so fortunate: one had been shot in the crossfire that wrecked the jeep and the other had been crushed as the jeep overturned.
    This was the first time James had been able to remember the incident clearly, and it chilled him. How easy it would have been to have died with them. One random factor different and he would have been the one who was shot or crushed. With an oath he got out of the tub, and stood shaking on the cold tiles as the water drained away.
    “I have brought you a robe,” Roger said a few minutes later as he returned. “Your other garments are not much use any longer. I believe that there is a change of clothes in the armoire of the room you used to occupy.”
    “Hope