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“No need.” Godric gestured to one of the wing chairs in the room, waiting for his guest to seat himself before taking one. “Moulder is in my confidence.”
“Ah.” Makepeace nodded. “Then I shall come straight to the point. Alf told me not more than an hour ago that she had found the last workshop.”
Godric was up at once, stripping off the banyan. “Moulder, give me a hand here. We’ll have to take off the boards on my wrist.”
“Is that wise?” Makepeace was looking worriedly at his immobilized arm.
“We can’t wait—Alf might try to rescue her friend by herself.” Godric arched an eyebrow. “Unless you think we can persuade the third one of us to come and rescue the girls?” At Makepeace’s frown, he shook his head. “I’m our only choice. The wrist has healed well enough. If Moulder can fashion a smaller, softer brace—”
“Godric?”
All three men looked up at the sound of the study door opening. Megs stood there, her glorious hair tumbled about her shoulders, a hand at her throat holding her wrapper closed, and Godric immediately wondered if that was the only thing she wore.
But his lady wife had other matters on her mind. She came into the room and shut the door behind her. “What is happening, Godric?”
Moulder had found a sharp knife but was standing frozen. Godric took the knife and began awkwardly cutting the bindings holding the two boards on his left arm. “I have to go out.”
“May I?” Makepeace was beside him and Godric nodded, handing the knife over so the other man could work more ably on the bindings.
“As the Ghost of St. Giles?” Megs whispered.
“Yes.” Godric kept his eyes on the work that Makepeace was doing.
“You can’t.” He could feel her stepping closer; then her hand was on his shoulder. “Godric! This is madness. You’ve only begun to heal. You’ll break your wrist again if you go out, and who knows if the doctor will be able to set it. You could be crippled for life—assuming you’re not killed.” He heard her huff of desperate exasperation and then she was addressing Makepeace. “Why are you making him do this?”
The home’s manager widened his eyes. “I …”
“Because I’m the only one who can do this.” Godric looked at her finally. Megs didn’t know Makepeace had been a Ghost once, but it didn’t matter: the man had sworn to his lady wife not to take up the swords again. “Megs, there are little girls in peril.”
She closed her eyes at that, visibly fighting something within herself. “Can you promise that this will be the last time? That you won’t be the Ghost of St. Giles anymore?”
He watched as the last strap was cut away, freeing his arm. The swelling had gone down, but there were nasty purple-black bruises around the wrist. He didn’t dare try flexing it. Moulder brought forth an old pair of stays they’d previously cut down to fit from his knuckles to his elbow in preparation for his next trip to St. Giles. He began binding it onto Godric’s arm.
“Godric?”
“No.” He didn’t dare look at her. “No, I cannot promise that.”
“Then promise me you’ll return alive and whole.”
He couldn’t do such a thing. She knew that. Yet he found himself saying, “I promise.”
The door opened and shut quietly.
Makepeace cleared his throat. “Perhaps if I alerted the dragoons—”
“We’ve been over this. Trevillion would take hours to agree—if he could be persuaded at all—and then hours more to mobilize his men.” He met the other man’s gaze. “Are you willing to risk the workshop moving again—or the girls being killed to cover the evidence?”
Makepeace flinched. “No.”
Godric looked down just as Moulder tied off the last binding. He swung the arm experimentally. If he made sure to favor it, it should do all right. “In that case, perhaps you can help me get ready?”
“Very well,” the home’s manager said. “And then we’ll need to plan a way to get past the dragoon standing guard over your house.”
“He’s still there?”
“Oh, indeed,” Makepeace said drily. “And he no doubt saw my arrival.”
Godric contemplated that fact while Moulder finished dressing him in his Ghost costume. When he sheathed his sword five minutes later, he nodded to Makepeace. “Come with me.”
