“Is that what you’re reciting?”
She sniffed. “It doesn’t work! I’m still frightened, and you’re still bleeding.”
“A book fell on me,” he said.
“A book flew across the room and hit you in the head!”
Well, yes. That was the disturbing aspect of it. What did a rational man do when life suddenly became irrational?
“Where’s Sus?” he asked by way of distraction.
“I don’t know. She disappeared right after your…” She amended her words at his hard glare. “After your accident. She’s probably hiding under her bed.”
“I am not!” his sister snapped as she rushed into the parlor. “I’ve brought help.”
Help? What help…
Jonathan’s gut clenched even as his breath eased. The two sensations were contradictory, and yet that’s how Giselle always made him feel. Contradictory! Because he was both enormously grateful for her presence and simultaneously afraid of what added idiocy she would bring.
That was bad enough, but Giselle hadn’t come alone. She was there with her twin, and his father’s name for them filled his mind. They were the “troubled twins,” and they made him equally unhinged.
Giselle looked exactly as she had this afternoon, though her gaze locked on his bloody forehead. Gwenivere appeared as she always did, with tightened fists and an expression that all but begged people to fight her. He much preferred the calm twin. Especially given the mercurial nature of the rest of his family.
“Susanne! Why would you bring them here?”
“Because we have a ghost andtheyhandle ghosts.”
“We don’t!” he snapped.
Strangely enough, Gwenivere said the same thing. “We don’t,” meaning they don’t handle ghosts.
And in the silence that abruptly echoed in the room, Giselle released an audible sigh. “First things first,” she said. “Let me look at your forehead.”
“There’s no need—”
“Don’t be a baby,” she said in exactly the tone of voice she’d used when they were teenagers. “There’s a lot of blood. You probably need stitches.”
“Head wounds bleed a lot,” he said, his tone begrudging. “I will call for a surgeon if I need one. Which I don’t.”
“I can stitch it. I’ve done it before.”
She had. Indeed, it washisarm that she’d stitched when he’d fallen out of a tree while trying to impress her. But instead of impressing her with his prowess, he’d fallen at her feet and squealed in shock at the bloody gash.
“You didn’t even get a scar,” she said.
“I did, too!” It was a thin white line. Not remotely ugly enough to impress anyone, but he still smiled at the memory. “I was very manly then,” he said. “Didn’t cry out once while you plied your needle.”
“I thought you very brave,” she said, humor lacing her own tone. “Stupid for climbing the tree, but brave as I stitched you up.”
He couldn’t disagree. Looking back, leaping for that tree branch had been the height of folly. He could have broken his neck instead of just gashing his arm. So he let her touch his handkerchief, then slowly peel it back. He tried not to wince. He focused on the gentle touch of her fingers instead.
She had elegant fingers, he thought. Long and capable, with clean nails and…
“Ouch!” The brief flash of pain surprised him.
“Sorry,” she said. “The fabric stuck a bit, but it’s free now.” She gently probed the area around the wound. “What happened?”
“A book fell on me.”
