Free Blue Damask by Annmarie Banks Page B

up and took a few turns between the bunk and the wall.  He smiled.  “Pacing is the sign of a troubled mind, Madam Doctor.”
         “It seems you have learned a great deal in the asylum, Mr.—“
         “Henry.”
         Elsa put a hand to her eyes.  “Yes.  Henry.”
         He leaned against the dressing table.  “What is wrong with me, Elsa?  Can you fix it like you fixed my arm?”  He held up the injured arm.  He looked at it for a moment then frowned.  “I supposed there is more to it than a simple repair.”
         “Your hands must hurt.  Your lip.  Your throat.”  She shrugged.  “Time heals those wounds.”
         “But deepens the others.”  He shook his head slowly side to side.  “I am ruined.  There is not much that can be done, really.  I appreciate your efforts.”
         She leaned against the wall.  “You sound as if you are dismissing me now.”
         He spread his hands.  “I asked you a question.  You have not answered.  That in itself is an answer.”
         She agreed.  “If you had asked me three days ago I would have stood up straight and tall and assured you that I could cure your neurosis.  I might have waved my pencil in your face and ordered you to sit and tell me about your mother.”
         His face changed when she mentioned his mother.  She stopped, for she was about to tell him how the recent bloody murders had shaken her ideas of a clean and sterile concept of the mind.  But he had stopped listening to her and turned his body back to the window.  “I would prefer not to talk about my mother,” he said.
         “And the murders? The attempt on your life?”
         “Appropriate dinner conversation.”
         A knock on the door.  “Luncheon is being served in the dining car. Lord Sonnenby.”  Davies’ voice came through the thin wood.
         Elsa looked down at her wrinkled skirt and sagging stockings.  They had always eaten in their rooms before.  “Mr. Davies,” she said to the door, “Is that a good idea?”
         “Mr. Marshall will be here in a few minutes to escort you both.”
         Elsa looked at Sonnenby.  He was dressed properly for public dining, though his hair could use a comb.  No amount of primping would hide his black eye and swollen lip.  She looked like a woman who needed a long hot bath and an iron.  “I am not so sure,” she said to Sonnenby.  “How do you feel about eating in public?  Surely the other passengers have heard of the murders.  They will stare.”
         They did stare.  Elsa tried to keep her eyes on her plate.  Sonnenby ate like a starved man across from her near the window.  Marshall sat next to him on the aisle and ate very little.  Conversation was limited to polite requests to pass a carafe or the salt.  The movement of the train clanked the glasses every now and then, and the stewards swayed as they served the meals.  Elsa was not hungry but she tried to eat.
         “ Fraulein ,” Marshall said.  “We reach Istanbul tomorrow morning.  A ship waits for us there.”
         She touched her napkin to her lip.  “Very good.”
         Marshall said, “I must congratulate you on your good work.  I admit I was doubtful at first.”
         She tilted her head.  “Mr. Marshall?”  She glanced at Sonnenby who finished his glass of wine and pretended to look out the window to hide a smile.
         “Look at him,” Marshall nodded toward Sonnenby.  Two weeks ago he was lying catatonic in an asylum.  Now he is presentable at table.  Remarkable.”
         Elsa felt her face grow hot.  “I assure you, Mr. Marshall—“
         “Archibald,” he said in a low voice.
         Sonnenby brought a fist down on the table making the glassware bounce.  Elsa and Marshall turned to him in alarm.  Sonnenby glared at him.  “You will not be familiar with her, Marshall.”
         “Mr. Sinclair,” Elsa