Page 102 of The Work of Art

“Philly, stay awake just a little longer. Open your eyes. Look at me.” Arthur was insistent. “Do you remember who did this to you?”

Her last clear memory was of Hyperion standing near the Hawthorn trees. He’d been munching on the grass, his tail swishing idly, and one ear cocked forward in an attitude of lazy attention. He’d watched her approach with seeming disinterest, but as soon as she’d touched him, he had exploded with energy.

The rest was all rather dim. She knew she’d fallen backward, and she could recall the shocking sensation of her head striking against something hard and brutally unforgiving as she hit the ground. After that, her world had gone mercifully black.

She nodded. The small movement sent a jolt through her already throbbing skull, causing her to give a small sob of pain.

“My love, my love, you mustn’t try to move. You must lie still. It will be all right soon, I promise you, but you cannot, you must not, move.”

Philly closed her eyes until the sharp pain had subsided. When she opened them again, Arthur was a shade paler. It suddenly seemed very important to tell him something. “Hyperion…”

“He’s perfectly fine.” Arthur lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to it. “Who did this to you, Philly? Did you recognize him?”

“No.” She struggled to say what she meant. “It was Hyperion. I followed him. I thought to…to catch him for you. To bring him back.”

“Of course, you did. Why else would you have wandered off into the pasture?”

She gave him a wan smile. “Yes.” Her lashes fluttered again. “He was over the hill. By the hawthorn trees.”

“Where you were hurt?” Arthur visibly tensed. “Was someone in those trees, Philly?”

“What? No. Arthur. Please, listen.” She squeezed his hand again with the same weak insistence. “Hyperion knocked me down. I think…my head must have hit a stone when I fell.”

“Hyperion did this to you?”

“Please…” She looked at him imploringly. “Don’t be angry with him. It was my fault. I tried to take his reins. He reared up and tossed his head. He’s so strong.”

“Hyperion knocked you down and your head hit a stone.” Arthur leaned closer to her. “Is that what happened?”

“Yes.” Philly sighed with relief, and having assured herself that Arthur understood what she had told him, she at last closed her eyes.

This time he made no attempt to stop her.

When Philly next woke, it was the early hours of the morning and she was in Arthur’s arms. She had no real idea of how much time had passed or how badly she’d been hurt.

“You’re awake.”

Philly started at the sound of Arthur’s deep voice. She looked up from where she lay to find him watching her intently. There was a worried frown across his brow and an expression in his eyes that she couldn’t interpret. He was still in his shirtsleeves, his hair disheveled and a shadow of stubble across his jaw. She had the vague impression he’d been keeping vigil over her. “Arthur.”

“I’m here.”

“You’re here,” she agreed softly. “I thought it must be a dream, but I…”

“It’s not a dream.” He touched the edge of her jaw with the back of his fingers. “How do you feel?”

“My head aches.”

He levered himself up on one elbow, his gaze drifting over her face. “Very badly?”

“No, just a little. Here, where I fell.” She reached to feel the back of her head, only to wince when her fingers brushed the site of her injury.

Arthur caught hold of her hand, gently restraining her from further exploration. “You’ve had a concussion. There’s a good-sized lump on your head, and a wound from where you hit the edge of a stone when you fell. It might be better not to touch it for now.”

Her brows drew together. “I know I hit my head, but—after that—I can’t seem to remember.”

“I’d be astonished if you could. You were unconscious when I found you and didn’t begin to wake until several hours after I brought you home. Even then you were a bit confused.”

“I imagined I was at Satterthwaite Court.”