His For Christmas (11 page)

Slowly,
she
opened
her
eyes
and
found
herself
staring
at
a
white
silken
canopy,
much
like
the
one
she
slept
under
back
home,
back
in
a
place
she
was
no
longer
welcome.

An
older
woman,
her
graying
wispy
hair
coming
free
from
the
bun
at
the
nape
of
her
neck,
leaned
forward
into
Ivy
’
s
view.
There
seemed
to
be
flour
on
her
dark
woolen
shoulders,
as
well
as
a
smudge
of
it
on
her
high
cheekbones
that
looked
decidedly
non--European.
“
Are
you
awake,
then?
How
do
you
feel?
”

There
was
a
soft
pulsing
of
heat
along
her
temple
and
Ivy
raised
a
hand,
encountering
a
thick
bandage
right
on her
hairline.
“
I
…”

She
turned
her
head
slowly
and
locked
eyes
with
a small boy, freckles sprinkled liberally over his thin features.
“
You
had
a
wicked
lump
on
your
head,
”
said
the
boy
in
a
matter--of--fact
voice.
“
That
would
be
the
sack
of
potatoes.
”

Potatoes?
She
remembered
the
tall,
skinny
bookseller
who
forced
her
from
the
relative
warmth
of
the
establishment
’
s
doorstep.
The
woman
pushed
her
down
the
three
stairs
onto
the
street
…
she
ran
into
something
hard,
bounced
off
and
then
…

Then?

She
shook
her
head
and
immediately
regretted
doing
so,
as
a
sudden
wave
of
pain
flashed
across
her
eyes.
With
a
small
cry,
she
closed
her
eyes
for
a
moment,
hoping
it
would
help.

It
did
help,
although
not
much.

“
Are
you
in
pain?
”
asked
the
older
woman,
the
one
who
smelled
like
flour
and
lemon
verbena.
The
smell
was
so
familiar,
so
reminiscent
of
Mrs.
Brown,
it
brought
a
lump
to
her
throat
and
she
felt
hotness
at
the
corners
of
her
eyes.

The
scent
of
lemons
came
closer.
“
Oh,
my.
Is
it
that
bad,
dear?
”

Ivy
shook
her
head
again,
this
time
slower
and
more
carefully.
“
Not
at
all.
What
…
what
…”