CHAPTER NINE
In Which Our Heroes Are Reunited
Passepartout had changed back into his white uniform and was slowly walking up
the corridor toward the captain's office. Every now and then he would
nonchalantly glance back over his shoulder, looking. His heart was pounding hard
in his chest and he felt very much sick to his stomach. Everything now was just
a matter of timing...good or bad.
He had just about reached the captain's door when he spotted the first tendrils
of grey smoke snaking up the corridor behind him. Without another thought he
stepped into the waiting room between the captain's office and the conference
room. He had only a few moment's time to establish his presence. A young man in
an officer's uniform glanced up at him from the desk in the center of the room.
"May I help you?" he asked with a somewhat bored, or perhaps still sleepy, tone.
"I am Jean." Passepartout replied, trying to keep his voice even, despite the
fear he felt. "The captain asked to be informed of any developments in the
condition of the uh....prisoner. I am here to make a report."
The man stifled a yawn. "It is rather early, cook. The captain has not yet
arisen from his..."
Suddenly a shout of "Fire in the hold!" rang out through the corridor outside.
The young officer's face lost all color and he jumped to his feet with a "My
god." Passepartout tried to look quizzical.
The corridor was soon filled with League of Darkness officers in variance stages
of dress running through the thickening grey smoke towards the stairwell that
would take them down into the hold. The young officer at the desk ran through
the open door of the captain's office and shortly thereafter Passepartout could
hear pounding. A few short moments later the young officer came back out with
the Captain in tow. Both men looked to Passepartout.
"He came to make a report about the prisoner." the young officer responded to
the captain's unasked question.
Ballentine was pulling on his shoes as they walked. "Stay here until I see what
all this ruckus is about."
And with that said the two men hurried out the door and into the smoky corridor.
Passepartout grinned. His plan had worked beautifully. Or at least the first
part had. Knowing he had precious little time to gloat at the moment, he slipped
through the door to the captain's office and walked in. The ornate box was where
he had last seen it, on the credenza behind the desk. He went over to snatch it
up and almost threw out his back. The box was much heavier than he thought.
"What to do now?" he exclaimed.
The lock was not of the combination kind which the valet could have easily
broken, but of the padlock kind. He would either need the key or something that
could cut through the thick metal posts. Neither of which he had on him. Then a
thought stuck him. What about gravity? Sometimes that worked best of all and it
would require very little exertion on his part. Putting a little muscle behind
it, he shoved the box over onto the floor.
It broke open upon impact and three large stones tumbled out.
Again the grin began to spread across his face, but he knew better than to let
these few small successes go to his head. The hard part was yet to come. He
scooped up the three stones and shoved them into his pocket. Now he had to get
across the poop deck and over to his master's room.
* * * * * * * *
Dozens upon dozens of League men descended upon the cargo hold of the ship,
carrying buckets of water and blankets to smother a fire they could not locate.
The entire hold was filled with grey smoke that stung their eyes and made their
throats constrict. They were constantly bumping into each other, or worse still,
the boxes of weapons and ammunition. Thankfully they were tied down rather
secure and the contents remained undisturbed.
Save for a small box of dynamite that somehow wriggled lose during the two-day
journey and was now being helpless dashed about by feet that could not see where
they were going. The box tipped over and sticks of explosives were scattered
across the floor.
And one particular little stick managed to roll just a little too close to the
small contained fire Passepartout had set in the far corner of the cargo hold.
* * * * * * * *
Passepartout scurried across the poop deck as quickly as he possibly could
without attracting too much unwanted attention. He needn't have worried, though,
for the few people who were still topside were in the pilothouse casting uneasy
glances down the corridor where grey smoke was just making its way up. The valet
had stopped on his way passed to inform them quite worriedly that there was a
fire in the cargo hold. They had been too disturbed to ask where he was going as
he hurried on past.
As he walked the expanse of the deck he would periodically pull a small
cylindrical-shaped object from his apron pocket and toss it in the vicinity of
the cargo hold doors. A few seconds after he passed a billow of grey smoke would
erupt until it appeared quite convincingly that the smoke from the fire had made
it's way upward. For all intense and purposes it seemed the fire below was
raging out of control.
He finally reached the building at the opposite end of the ship and slipped
inside. The kitchen crew were already in the galley preparing breakfast,
completely oblivious to the commotion going on below, until Passepartout ran
down the corridors screaming "Fire in the hold!" at the top of his lungs. Soon
the corridors were a mass of running or fleeing bodies.
He soon joined the running crew of League men as they hurried to the hold to
lend their
assistance. They were all quite aware of what cargo the ship held and what would
happen to them should that cargo catch fire. But as they neared the corridor
where his master was being held he forcibly slowed down and pulled himself free
of the dashing mob.
So far his plan was working brilliantly. Now he had to deal with the two guards
still stationed at the door. They were trading anxious looks as he approached
them.
"There is fire in the hold." he explained, trying to look quite worried and
confused at the same time.
Again they traded glances then looked at him. "You will watch the prisoner?" one
inquired.
Passepartout waved a hand in the direction of where his master lay. "He be going
nowhere on his own, believe me."
For a third time they exchanged glances. They also knew of the powder keg being
held in the ship and what would happen should a fire be allowed to spread. They
also knew the prisoner was in no shape to leave the bed let alone leave a ship
at sea. The captain certainly wouldn't fault them for leaving him to help combat
a threat to the entire safety of the ship.
"The captain yelling for all body-abled men to help." Passepartout added as an
incentive.
And that was all they needed to hear. With a backward glance at the prisoner,
who had not stirred at all since the afternoon before, they took off down the
corridor and soon joined the last remnants of the crew heading down to the hold.
Passepartout breathed a heavy sigh and hurried into the room.
Mister Fogg was laying ghastly white against the blood-dried sheets. It seemed
to the valet that his master's slender body had almost failed to gauntness in
the matter of just a few hours. His breathing was once again less even, and now
and then caught painfully in his chest. He glanced up sleepily as Passepartout
knelt beside the bed.
"Master..." He slipped an arm under Fogg's shoulders and lifted him up to a
sitting position. "Master, you must be drinking this."
He held the bottle up to his master's lips and Fogg obediently started to drink.
He coughed up the first few sips, but then took a deep breath and finished the
bottle. When he was finished Passepartout laid him back down for the few moments
it would take for the elixir to start working and ran over to the trunk where he
had stored his master's blood-stained clothes. He pulled the shirt out and
brought it over to the bed. It would not do his master's condition any good to
go outside in the chilly morning air with nothing on save his trousers.
Fogg glanced at him as he knelt beside the bed, noticing the shirt in his hands.
"Did you get them, Passepartout...?" he asked weakly.
"Yes, master. I have all three."
"Good. You've got to get them to Rebecca. She'll know what to do."
Passepartout shook his head. "No, master. You giving them to Miss Rebecca. We
leaving now."
Fogg chuckled in the back of his throat. "Passepartout, I can't possibly..."
The soft statement on the valet's face suddenly hardened as he glared at his
master. "You telling Passepartout once that I can't not in your vocabulatory. We
leaving now."
Without waiting for his master's response, he slipped his arms under Fogg's
shoulders and lifted him back up to a sitting position. Fogg winced at the pain
in his side, but said nothing. The elixir was already coursing its way through
his system, easing the pain and almost giving him the feeling of invulnerability
that he knew could be useful or dangerous. Passepartout shoved one of his arms
down the sleeve of the shirt he held and Fogg did his best to help him get the
other one in. The movement hurt like h-ll as he felt the wound stretch under the
rough dressing, but again he held in the groan.
With the shirt on as best they could get it, Passepartout half-dragged, half
carried his master off the bed and onto his own two feet. This time Fogg could
not suppress the groan as the stitch in his side stretched beyond endurance and
pain threatened to black him out. He fell heavy into Passepartout's arms, but
the valet found the strength to keep them both on their feet. He took a deep
breath and started dragging his master's near dead weight toward the door.
* * * * * * * *
"Wha...is that smoke?" Verne exclaimed as he watched grey clouds billow out of
the pilothouse. He had been watching the ship since early dawn for any sign of
Passepartout or Fogg and this was the first show of activity he had seen that
suggested the valet might be on time.
Rebecca came up beside him with the other spyglass up to her eyes. "Yes, it
would appear so." She smiled. Fire was always a good diversion when one was in a
pinch. "Any sign of
Passepartout....?" She was almost afraid to say her cousin's name for fear of
jinxing the whole thing.
Verne was about to answer in the negative when he caught sight of a figure in
white hurrying away from the pilothouse. "There he is." he exclaimed excitedly.
Rebecca felt her heart drop dramatically as she noticed he was alone. She felt
Verne's hand on her arm and she dropped the glass to glance over at him. He
tried a reassuring smile and gave her arm a squeeze. "We've got to trust
Passepartout, Rebecca, or this isn't going to work."
She returned a small smile of her own and nodded. "I know. It's just that I
can't get my hopes up, Jules, until I see Phileas, there, in the flesh."
"You will, Rebecca. Just give him a little more time."
He gave her arm one last squeeze before returning his attention to the ship.
Passepartout had disappeared again, presumably into the other building, and grey
smoke could be seen now billowing out of the cargo hold doors.
"It looks like he set the entire hold on fire." he remarked.
"That would create a diversion." she agreed.
She put the spyglass up to her eyes again and together they waited for what
seemed an eternity before a figure dressed in white came shuffling out of the
building, half-carrying another figure partially dressed in trousers and a
billowing white shirt. Both figures glanced upward at the Aurora.
Rebecca sagged against the window of the observation platform and placed a hand
on the cool glass right where she saw her cousin's face. He was alive.
"Phileas...." she whispered, a sudden lightness in her heart.
"Rebecca," Verne's voice brought her back to reality and she straightened up.
They were not safe yet. She glanced over at the young author and nodded.
Marion was already racing down the stairs from the observation balcony as the
two turned from the platform and started back toward the wench. She flashed
Verne a smile as they passed each other and she continued on over to the
steering globe. Verne had given her a quick lesson on the basics of steering the
Aurora. All she would have to do was keep her steady in a hovering position as
Rebecca went down in the wench to assist Passepartout. Verne was in charge of
lowering and raising the wench and giving her direction as she flew.
Rebecca had already shed her hoop skirt and basic frivolities for the comfort of
her leather catsuit. Verne lifted the trapdoor in the bottom of the Aurora's
floor and Rebecca hopped onto the flatboard wench. After she grabbed a hold of
two of the ropes to steady herself Verne began to crank the handle that would
begin the wench's descent.
As the wench cleared the Aurora the wind began to whip Rebecca's hair around and
she found it increasing difficult to see. She wrapped one arm around the rope
and released the other to grab a hold of the tail that was her hair and she
peered downward. She could see the ship now from beyond the Aurora, but could
barely make out the two figures standing at the rail. She continued to hold on
to the rope with one hand and her hair with the other as the Aurora slowly moved
closer to the ship.
At last she could see Phileas and Passepartout. Both their faces were glancing
upward, watching her decent. She felt a tug at her heart and a smile spread
across her face. They would be together soon, on the Aurora, and everything
would be all right.
And that was the last thought on her mind as a huge flash of light and a peal of
thunder so loud she went instantly deaf engulfed her. The wench pitched wildly
with the reverberation and suddenly went out from under her feet. She flailed
out for the rope with her other hand, missed it completely, and then she was
falling.
* * * * * * * *
Fogg did his best to help Passepartout in whatever small way he could. As soon
as they cleared the doorway and had started toward the back of the ship, he
reached out with his hand and tried to steady himself on the side of the
building. This lifted a great deal of the weight off the valet but still kept
most of it off his wounded side as well. They hurried as quickly as they
possibly could along the side to the back.
Passepartout chanced a glance upward to see the bottom trap door of the Aurora
fall open and the wench start it's descent. As it cleared the airship he could
see she carried a passenger, red hair whipping around in the morning air. It was
Miss Rebecca.
"Miss Rebecca," he said to Mister Fogg, "she coming to assisticate."
Fogg tried to reply, but it took all his energy just to remain on his feet. He
reached out and grabbed the rail tightly with both hands, surprised to notice
how badly they shook with the strain. He was beginning to feel faint and quite
sick to his stomach. And as fortune would have it, the pain in his side was
starting to return.
Passepartout shielded his eyes as he watched the wench descend ever so slowly,
wondering why Master Jules was not turning it any faster. Didn't he realize they
had no time to waste? He took a deep breath to calm his ragged nerves. Of course
Master Jules realized that. He was most definitely going as quickly as he could.
"Not to worry, master," he said by way of convincing himself as well as Mister
Fogg, "she is almost..."
His last word was drowned out by an awful explosion directly behind them. A
flash of light nearly blinded them and the resounding thunder threw both men
into a word of silence. Then the deck canted.
Passepartout braced against the roll of the ship and kept his footing. Fogg
shouted a silent curse and lost his hold on the rail, falling to the deck and
sliding across the smooth surface to fetch up against the far taffrail. The
valet let out his own silent curse; but Fogg managed to haul himself upright.
His pallor had returned for it had been only sheer willpower and determination
that had gotten him to the poop in the first place.
A second explosion rocked the ship and the deck tilted at an even greater angle.
Passepartout himself staggered, arms flailing as he struggled to retain his
balance. Fogg was flung hard against the rails, close to toppling over into the
waves. Passepartout slithered across the deck to snatch a handful of his
master's shirt and tried to drag him back to safety.
Unfortunately a third explosion rocked the ship and this time Passepartout did
lose his balance. His master's shirt was ripped from his grasp as the valet's
feet went out from under him and he was slammed onto the poop deck. Fogg flailed
out for the rail, missed completely, and went over.
Passepartout scrambled to his feet on the heaving deck. "Master!"
* * * * * * * *
"Jules!" came Marion's scream as an overwhelming bright light filled the
Aurora's interior and the airship pitched wildly to the left. Her feet slipped
out from under her on the polished deck and she found herself sliding helplessly
across the floor, fetching up against the wall.
Verne let out a cry himself as the Aurora bucked beneath his feet. He at least
had the presence of mind to grab on tight to the wench's crank as it started to
spin uncontrollably. He managed to stop it's downward spiral and it offered a
steady handhold as the airship continued to be pitched from side to side with
every new explosion.
"Marion!" he yelled, hoping he could be heard above the din down below. "You've
got to pull her back! Pull her back!"
Marion barely heard him above the roar of the explosions, but she could see his
hand motions and guess what he wanted her to do. He could not leave his station
for fear of losing Rebecca, or worse yet, his grip on the crank and be
helplessly tossed overboard in the next blast. She wanted neither. So she
scrambled onto her hands and knees and crawled toward the steering globe.
Holding onto the crank with one hand for leverage Verne slid himself closer to
the hole in the floor and peered down below. The ship was still in one piece,
relatively speaking, black smoke billowing from the entire mid-section of the
cargo hold. He could now see orange-red flames flickering across the deck and
more licking from the open doorways and portals. Of Passepartout and Fogg there
was nothing to be seen. And then his eyes cast upon the wench, swaying empty in
the wind.
Rebecca was gone.
* * * * * * * *
Passepartout hit the water just as the fourth explosion rocked the ship, pieces
of timber and metal shards following after. He let the dive carry him downward
for a short length until he got his bearings and was able to turn around,
kicking hard for the surface. He broke the water's surface as pieces of the ship
rained down around him. He continued to kick, turning this way and that in a
near panic to locate Mister Fogg.
"Master!" he screamed, finally able to hear his own voice, hoarse as it was from
terror. How could he loose his master now after they had already been through so
much. "Master, where are you?!"
But the only thing he could see was the ship behind him and the flotsam and
jetsam around him. In desperation he took a deep breath, ready to dive back into
the water, when a tangle of auburn hair spread across the surface of the water
before him like a sinewy spider's web. And a moment later Rebecca Fogg broke the
surface, dragging up a sputtering Phileas Fogg.
"Master!" Passepartout cried happily. "Miss Rebecca!"
Rebecca gave him a small smile, her attention focused on keeping her cousin
afloat. Fogg was near dead weight in her arms and his water-logged clothes were
only making him heavier. Passepartout reached over and grabbed his master under
the arm, taking some of the burden off Rebecca. Fogg leaned the back of his head
on his cousin's shoulder, too exhausted to hold it up any longer. Rebecca
reached up with her free hand and brushed his cheek.
"Phileas, you must stay awake." she said, gently but firmly, her teeth
chattering in the chilly morning air. She could feel his body shaking violently
against hers, quite aware that hypothermia was still a viable threat for him as
well as for her and Passepartout. They had to get out of the freezing water and
quickly.
"Master Jules has mo-ved the Aurora." Passepartout remarked, nodding his head
toward the sky. "Farthered away."
She half turned to follow his gaze. Marion and Verne had indeed moved the Aurora
further away. Probably to get out of the updraft created by the explosions on
the ship, which, thankfully, had ceased for the time being. The wench was being
lowered to the surface of the water as they watched.
"The stones, Passepartout..." Fogg whispered. "Do you still have them?"
The valet nodded, feeling the stones still securely cradled in his apron pocket.
"Yes, master, they are very safe. Now we must get you safe."
"Very good idea, Passepartout..."
* * * * * * * *
"Okay, Marion, level her off," Verne called out from where he lay on the floor
peering through the spyglass at the three figures bobbing in the water a short
distance from the smoldering ship. The explosions had stopped, thank God, and
the air was still once again. "That's it. Right there. Now moved forward again,
very slowly, until I tell you to stop."
Marion nodded her head. She slowly rolled the globe forward, making sure to keep
it level. Her hands were shaking so badly, though, she wasn't certain how steady
she could keep the airship. But Verne didn't seem to notice so she figured she
was doing all right.
Verne had lowered the wench to about a foot or so above the water's surface and
then locked it off. He wouldn't lower it to the surface until they were closer
to the swimming figures. Marion's flying was smooth and he had been impressed
that she had been able to pull them out of the updraft as quickly as she had. He
found himself smiling despite himself as he thought of the young girl's courage
and fortitude.
The Aurora covered the distance to the swimming figures and Verne finally
released the lock and slowly lowered the wench until it brushed the surface of
the water. He locked it in place there until all three were on board. Rebecca
struggled up first as Passepartout tried his best to keep Fogg's head above the
surface of the water. Then while Passepartout lifted, Rebecca pulled, and Fogg
strained, they managed to get him on. Lastly, Passepartout pulled himself up.
Verne slammed the automatically recoil home and climbed up to his feet.
"Are they all right?" Marion asked.
"They're alive."
* * * * * * * *
"We're almost there, Phileas." Rebecca whispered to her cousin as he laid
cradled in her arms, shivering uncontrollably once again in the freezing air. He
tried to respond, but his teeth were chattering so loudly that he couldn't get
an intelligible word out.
Passepartout, standing on the wench, and holding onto the ropes for dear life,
glanced down at the two Foggs. Rebecca sat, one arm wrapped around a rope, the
other around Fogg's waist, his head resting in the crook between her neck and
shoulder. She was trembling, but he couldn't tell if it was from the cold or his
master's own shivering. Fogg's complexion was almost green, his hair plastered
to his face by sweat and water. His eyes were open, but unfocused. If it hadn't
been for the violent tremors running through his body, Passepartout would have
taken him for dead.
The wench finally approached the Aurora and the valet could see Jules Verne and
a beautiful young girl standing next to him, waiting anxiously. He sighed with
relief, finally allowing himself to actually believe they had made it from hell
and back. The valet stumbled up onto the deck of the airship and turned with
Verne to lift Mister Fogg up out of Rebecca's arms.
"We must getting him out of these wet clothes." Passepartout exclaimed.
Rebecca climbed up to her own shaky feet and insisted on taking one of her
cousin's arms. She looked at Verne and nodded toward the steering globe. "Jules,
set a course for home."
Fogg's head snapped up then, and his eyes flashed for a brief moment. "No,
Cairo, Verne." he said in a voice that brooked no argument.
Rebecca was certainly wont to try. She reached up with her free arm and took her
cousin's face in her hand, forcing him to look at her. "Phileas, you need a
doctor." she said slowly, firmly, as if speaking with a temperamental child.
"The best doctor's are in London..."
Fogg sighed, his eyes loosing the light they had once held. "Rebecca, I don't
have the strength to argue. I'll be all right," he lied, he never felt worst
than he did at that very moment, "Passepartout has gotten me this far and I know
he'll do the best he can..."
"Passepartout is not a doctor!" she exclaimed, a sob catching in her throat.
Fogg felt his strength ebbing, saw darkness summoning him from the corner of his
eye. Knew this time he could not resist her. "Rebecca, please....for just once
in your life listen to what I am saying...."
And that was it. Darkness snatched him by the hand and jerked him away.
Passepartout shifted quickly as he felt his master's body go slack. He slid both
arms under Fogg's shoulders, catching him as he slowly ebbed helplessly toward
the floor. Both Rebecca and Verne jumped in, catching Fogg on either side,
relieving the valet of carrying the burden all alone.
"We must get him up stairs." Rebecca replied.
Exhausted as he was, Passepartout had to agree, knowing that without his aid,
the others would never make it up to his master's bedroom. While it was rather
difficult maneuvering up the spiral staircase, all four managed somehow without
slipping on the puddles of water that literally dripped from Fogg, Passepartout,
and Rebecca. Then it was down the hallway, past several closed doors to a
comfortable bedchamber near the end of the passage. Passepartout kicked the door
open with the heel of his boot and they squeezed through the small door.
The room was simply furnished. One narrow bed flanked by a nightstand and chest
of drawers, one closet, and a shuttered window. A few tasteful works of art
adorned the walls and one small Parisian carpet covered a portion of the floor.
They sat Fogg on the edge of the bed and started to pull off his wet clothes.
When they were down to just his trousers, Passepartout glanced over at Rebecca.
She shook her head
vehemently, scared to death that if she let Phileas out of her sight this would
all turn out to be just a dream.
"Miss, Rebecca, please." the valet begged, "Passepartout will need bandages and
salve to re-dress Mister Fogg's wound."
Marion took her gently by the shoulders and pulled her away from the bed. "He
will need extra blankets as well, Rebecca," she said softly. "Help me gather
them, won't you?"
"I can't leave him..." Rebecca protested.
Verne stood up to face her. "It's all right, Rebecca. He's here." Then he
repeated himself slowly, word for word. "He is here. He's not going anywhere."
Marion exerted a little extra force and managed to steer Rebecca towards the
door and out into the corridor.
Passepartout held his master while Verne pulled the rest of his clothes off and
then they managed together to get him laid out on the bed. Passepartout pulled
the bed covers up to his master's waist then began to work at the dressing he
had applied the day before. As he lifted the last pad away, he was not prepared
for what he saw.
"Oh, gaw!" Verne chocked out, feeling his stomach lurch at the sight and smell
of a wound gone terribly, terribly bad.
The wound was worse today than it had been that first morning when he had
stumbled upon the doctor and his master. Both the entry and exit wounds were
discolored a dark brownish-red and the skin along his side between them was
inflamed. The stench was almost unbearable. Passepartout ran a hand along the
swollen area, his fingertips picking up a crackly sensation in the tissue from
the poisonous gas beneath it. He reached over and felt his master's forehead. It
was burning up once again with fever.
"Passepartout...?" Verne asked, turning away, unable to look at the wound any
longer.
"Gangrene." was the valet's cold answer.
* * * * * * * *
Rebecca did not take the news well at all. She fell to her knees beside the bed,
grasping one of her cousin's cold hands in hers and bringing it up to her cheek,
hoping her own warmth would bring life to his. His skin was moist and cold as
she ran a finger along his cheek, his eyes deeply sunken beneath bruised-looking
lids. Then for an instant she thought she saw a faint expression of pain across
his features.
With tears stinging behind her eyes, she squeezed the hand in hers and
exclaimed, almost
angrily, "Don't let go, Phileas! Don't you dare let go!"
Again she thought she caught the faintest flicker of emotion in that still, pale
face. Probably it was only a trick of the light.
Taking a deep breath she looked up at Passepartout and Verne, who stood side by
side on the other side of the bed, looking tired and very worried. "We are going
to London." she said firmly. "There are doctor's there..."
Passepartout dropped to his knees and the look on his face stopped her, her
heart gone cold as the grave. "Miss Rebecca, it is bad. Very bad. London too far
away."
"We are not going to Cairo, Passepartout!" she exclaimed. "That ship is dead in
the water. We have the stones already. The crown is useless..."
He reached out and caught her free hand, holding it firmly between his two.
"Count already using crown. Very bad modifiers. He using it to concord the
world. Mister Fogg, he knows this, Miss Rebecca, that's why we go to Cairo."
Verne came around to the other side of the bed and stooped down beside her. As
Passepartout released his grasp on her hand, the young writer took her by the
shoulders and turned her to face him. Rebecca was wont to let her gaze turn from
her cousin's sleeping face, but Verne was insistent that she met his gaze.
"Rebecca," he said softly, fighting to keep his voice even, though it still
trembled with emotion. "It was Phileas's wish that we finish what was started.
What is happening is bigger than him, bigger than us, and he knew that. But if
we don't stop Count Gregory now, before he gathers his armies, we'll be in the
middle of a war that we might not win. Passepartout has told me that the Count
has made modifications to the crown. He's able to control vast numbers of men
and not just in the vicinity, but clear across the globe. Yes, the fact that we
have intercepted the bloodstones puts a slight damper on his plans, but it
doesn't defeat it."
The tears were streaming down Rebecca's face now and she had no desire to stop
them. "I don't care about all that, Jules...I can't just sit here and watch him
die. I can't..."
But he knew better. He knew she did care. Cared with a passion. And that's what
was eating her up inside. He knew the only way to alleviate that pain was to
show her she really had no choice. "Passepartout says the infection has spread
too far, Rebecca. They would have to amputate. Do you really think Phileas would
want to live like that?"
Yes, she wanted to scream with all her heart. Yes, he would want to live. But
she would only be fooling herself. Phileas would not have called that living.
Spending the rest of his days confined to a bed. Unable to participate in the
joys of life. No, he would have thought that a life worse than death and sooner
or later would have taken his own life to spare himself and his friends the
agony of watching his life slip slowly away.
"Passepartout make him comfortable, Miss Rebecca." the valet replied slowly,
pausing to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat. He had cleaned and
redressed the wound, applying some herbs in hopes of masking the foul odor. But
that was all he could do with the limited amount of doctoring he knew and the
medications he had on hand. He had seen his fare share of wounds gone
gangrenous. And without immediate care and the right medicines they were, more
often than not, mortal wounds.
Rebecca turned away from Jules, wiping the tears from her cheeks. She took her
cousin's hand in hers and reached up with the other to brush a few lank strands
of hair back off his face, taking in the deepening hollows in his cheeks and at
his temples, the pallid whiteness of his skin. It had only been a few short days
since she had left him in that alley in London, but he seemed years older.
The ache in her heart had returned, but only less so. She could feel his heart
beating next to hers, struggling for every next beat, slowing in death. And no
matter how hard she tried to bring the light, it would not shine. He was dying
and there was not a d-mn thing she could do about it.
Except fulfill his last wish. Find the Crown of Souls and bring it back to
England along with the bloodstones.
A wicked half-smile crossed her lips. Killing Count Gregory would be her gift to
him.
(
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