Basil hunkered down beside Phyllida. He stretched out a hand and lifted a fallen lock of her hair back from her face. His face was set, blank with shock. Phyllida's hair was scorched here and there; her blue gown had fared worse, even worse than Lucifer's coat. Thankfully, she'd worn a cambric walking dress, not one of her thin muslin gowns. With luck, she would escape any major burns. Basil's hand shook as he drew it back; he had paled.
So, too, had the others. Henry Grisby caught his breath and volunteered, "Dottswood's closest. I've a farm cart I can bring up the old lane. It'll still be a way away, but…" His voice trailed away.
Filing nodded. "Yes, Henry. That's the best suggestion. Go, now."
Henry nodded. He drew back, his gaze on Phyllida. Then he turned and started climbing the slope, slowly, then more quickly. At the top, he broke into a run.
"Terrible, terrible." As shaken as the rest, Cedric straightened; the effort he made to regain his composure was visible. He looked at Lucifer. "Was it about that hat?"
Lucifer looked at him, then glanced at the smoldering cottage. "I believe she had the hat with her."
Phyllida regained consciousness on the journey back to the Grange. The gentle rocking of the cart, the freshening breeze, tugged her back to reality. She opened her eyes and was immediately beset by a paroxysm of coughing.
A large hand closed over hers.
"It's all right. You're safe."
She looked up; through stinging tears, she saw the face that, in the moment she'd thought would be her last, had been the only face in her mind. Her last instant of lucidity had been filled with regret-regret for what they wouldn't have a chance to share. Closing her eyes, she let her head slump and gave silent thanks. Fate had been kind-they still had their chance.
Sliding her fingers in his, she clung. "Who saved me?" His coat was burned, an unsalvageable wreck.
"Hush-don't talk."
She heard a rustle on the cart's seat; then Henry Grisby's voice reached her.
"Lucifer saved you-thank God."
His tone was fervent. Lucifer had, it seemed, been elevated from demon to god, at least in Henry's eyes.
Not only in Henry's eyes. Phyllida squeezed Lucifer's fingers, inexpressibly relieved to feel them firm and strong around hers.
The hours that followed were a confusion of sounds perceived through a haze-her lungs felt tight, dizziness threatened, she couldn't stand or speak, she could barely move, not even her head. Her eyes burned, but at least she could see-at least she was still alive.
Every time her mind touched on that, she wept-tears of joy, of relief, of emotion too overwhelming to contain.
Her father was shocked, shaken. She tried to reassure him but had no idea if what she said was even coherent. Jonas carried her upstairs, but it was Lucifer who lingered, leaning over her bed, stroking her hair back from her face. Behind him, Sweetie, Gladys, and her aunt rushed and fussed and spoke in whispers. Lucifer leaned close, his face soot-streaked, his expression softer than she'd ever known it.
He touched his lips to hers. "Rest. I'll be here when you wake. Then we'll talk."
Her lids drifted closed of their own accord. She thought she nodded.
Evening shadows were playing across her room when she awoke. For long minutes, she simply lay there, thrilled by the fact of being alive.
With the help of Sweetie and her aunt, she'd stripped off her ruined clothes, then bathed. She'd had Sweetie snip the scorched locks from her hair. Gladys had produced a salve. After annointing every minor burn and scorched spot, she'd donned a fine cotton robe and lain down on her bed.
They'd left her and she'd slept. It had been like falling into a deep well, black, soundless, undisturbed.
She felt a great deal better. Gingerly, she eased up to sit, then, encouraged, swung her legs over the side of the bed. Holding onto the bed, she stood. Her limbs seemed in working order. A twinge here and there, the scorches and bruises, too, but nothing incapacitating.
A cough caught her, rasping pain gripped her lungs. She clung to the bed, struggling to master her breathing. Her throat felt scorched; it hurt to breathe other than shallowly. If she drew a deeper breath, coughing threatened.
Once the paroxysm faded, she straightened and walked, carefully, to the bellpull.
Her little maid, Becky, came up. Twenty minutes later, Phyllida felt human again-resurrected. In a gown of soft lavender trimmed with a flounce and a narrow band of darker ribbon, with a gauzy scarf around her throat and perfume dabbed liberally, hair neat and sleek once more, she felt ready to face what lay beyond her door.
The maid opened it for her. Before she could cross the threshold, Lucifer was there.
He frowned. "You should have rung. I would have-" He stopped, then grimaced. "Got Jonas to carry you down."
Phyllida smiled; with her heart and soul in her eyes, she smiled into his. Then she let her gaze roam, drinking in the fact that he, too, had rested and recovered. He was wearing a coat of that particular shade of dark blue that best set off his eyes and made his hair appear blacker than jet. The sight erased a lingering worry in her heart; only with its easing did she realize it had been there.
"You shouldn't be walking."
His voice was rough and raspy. She studied his hard face, then calmly said, "Why not? You are."
He scowled, trying to read her eyes. "I wasn't knocked unconscious."
She raised her brows. "Was I?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'm conscious now. If you'll just give me your arm, I'm sure we'll manage."
He did. He hovered solicitously down the stairs and all the way to the library, but, as she'd predicted, they managed perfectly well.
Pausing before the library door, she let her gaze linger on his face. Raising a finger, she traced his cheek, as she first had two weeks ago. "When we work together we're invincible."
She'd intended the comment to refer to their descent; hearing it, she realized it applied to much more.
She lifted her eyes and he met them, his blue gaze steady. He trapped her hand, pressed a kiss to her palm. "So it would appear."
He held her gaze for a moment longer, then reached past her and opened the library door.
Her father rose as they entered. So, too, did Cedric. Jonas was standing by the long windows.
"My dear!" Sir Jasper came forward, hands outstretched, concern very evident in his face.
Phyllida put her hands in his. "Papa." She returned his kiss. "I'm feeling much better, and I really should tell you what happened." Her voice was as raspy as Lucifer's.
"Humph!" Sir Jasper looked at her, shaggy brows drawn down. "You're quite sure you're up to it?"
"Quite sure." Retaking Lucifer's arm, she allowed him to steer her to the chaise. She nodded to Cedric.
Handing her to the chaise, Lucifer murmured, "I thought Cedric should be here-there are points he might be able to help us with."
Phyllida nodded and settled back. Before she could blink, Lucifer lifted her ankles and swung her feet up. Previously, she'd have glared and swung them back down. Now she just wriggled into a more comfortable position.
"Well, then." Clearing his throat, her father sat in a nearby chair. "If you're determined to explain it tonight, we'd better start, heh?"
"Perhaps"-Lucifer took the chair beside the chaise-"to save Phyllida's throat, I could fill in the background, then she need only describe the events only she knows."
Sir Jasper turned his gaze expectantly to Lucifer. Cedric, in another armchair, did the same. Jonas held to his position by the windows, his attention fixed on Lucifer.
Lucifer settled back. "To begin, there are some elements in our investigations which concern others not implicated in Horatio's murder or the subsequent attacks on Phyllida, but to whom we, Phyllida and I, owe a certain measure of confidentiality." He looked at Sir Jasper. "If you will accept some of our discoveries without detailed explanations of how we made them, then we can preserve those confidentialities without prejudicing our account."