When she finished, she cleaned the gash and left the bloodstained cloth beside the water basin. Perhaps her captor might feel some pity for her.
What ought she to do next?
Should she feign illness? Pretend the pain in her injured arm had overcome her?
Footsteps sounded beyond the door, and fear tightened her stomach.
How ought she to behave?
Mary resolved to remain calm and ask for assistance opening one of the bottles so she might clean her wound.
A key scraped within the lock.
The door opened, and a man wearing rough clothing entered carrying a tray of food. He halted upon seeing her upright and awake. Then his gaze traveled over the spirits she had arranged on the table.
Greed lit his face. Perhaps her plan would succeed.
She forced herself to speak calmly.
“Sir, I am injured.” She lifted the bloodstained sleeve of her gown and pointed toward the bloody cloth and basin of water. “I have washed the laceration, but if you would be so good as to open one of these bottles, I may clean it with spirits and perhaps ward off inflammation.”
She remained still while the man examined her arm and then the bottles. She watched him consider the request and knew the moment he decided it was reasonable.
“Yes, miss.”
He set the tray upon the table and pulled the cork from the nearest bottle. Cognac.
His eyes lit as the scent of the spirits reached him.
“Where do you want it, miss?”
She held up a clean strip of cloth. “Pour a little upon this, sir.”
He tipped the bottle with care, guarding every drop from waste.
“Thank you, sir.”
Mary pushed back her sleeve, turned her face away, and shut her eyes before pressing the soaked cloth against the gash in her skin.
Pain tore a cry from her throat.
Tears escaped beneath her closed lids while she scrubbed the wound again and again. At last, the bloodied rag slipped from her fingers to the floor, and she buried her face in her hands and struggled to keep from weeping.
The agony finally eased, and she lowered her hands and wiped her eyes with a clean cloth before looking toward the man once more.
“Thank you, sir. I believe the wound has been properly cleansed now, and perhaps I shall escape inflammation.”
He regarded her with what appeared to be pity.
“Ma’am, would you care for a drink of this cognac? It may ease the pain.”
In truth, Mary did not wish to drink. She needed her wits about her. But if she might persuade him to drink, she would accept.
“Yes, sir. I believe it may help. My arm pains me dreadfully.”
She emptied the water from her glass and held it out to him.
“Only a little, sir. I am unaccustomed to such strong spirits, and I do not wish to waste it. Will you not take some as well?”
