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She tried to lift it, but Hugo’s hand was resting on her wrist. When he felt her try to move, his grip tightened.
“Try not to move your hand too much, ma cherie.”
“My hand,” she said, her voice weak, more whisper than sound.
“You’ve broken several bones that need to be set. Right now, it’s just wrapped up temporarily. Your brother has gone out to pick up someone he said could do that. He also promised to bring back food,” Hugo explained.
Sylvia nodded, trying not to think about how bad the damage might be. She wrote with that hand, drew. She closed her eyes, struggling to fight back the fear, the panic still clawing at her chest.
Though the practical part of her brain knew she was safe, she was having a hard time beating back the terror she’d felt in that car with Alicia.
“Alicia,” she whispered, still trying to believe that her beloved teacher, her mentor, had tried to kidnap her, had drugged her. Had lost her ever-lovin’ mind.
“She got away,” Lancelot said, his tone telling her how much that fact enraged him.
“Good,” Sylvia said. “I never want to see her again. I can’t…”
“Can’t what?” Lancelot prodded.
“Can’t believe how crazy she was. You should have heard the things she was saying…about the world. About Europe. About…” she paused again, recalling all that Alicia had told her about the Masters’ Admiralty. About Hugo and Lancelot being members.
The same feeling of unease she’d felt at the resort when Alicia pointed out the holes in Hugo and Lancelot’s reason for being together in Charleston came back to her.
The two men shared a pointed look.
That look told her there was something they weren’t saying.
That look told her perhaps her mentor wasn’t as crazy as she’d seemed.
Her body hurt and her head was fuzzy. She had that slightly disconnected feeling she was fairly sure was due to prescription painkillers, not whatever Alicia had pumped into her.
Even with that, she wasn’t sure she could handle anything more. She could close her eyes, pretend she hadn’t seen the way they looked at each other. She could, but she wouldn’t.
“Why are you in Charleston?” she asked. “Is there really going to be a book, Hugo?”
Hugo rubbed his face wearily while Lancelot cursed under his breath.
She closed her eyes, her chest going tight as she fought to suck in a deep breath. Her eyes flew open again when the darkness, the difficulty breathing, reminded her of falling into the ocean. Sleep wasn’t going to come easy for a while. Maybe forever.
“There isn’t a book,” Hugo admitted.
“So it’s true?” she whispered, the horror she’d felt with Alicia returning when she realized she hadn’t truly escaped the nightmare. The only difference right now was who her captors were. “Everything she said…”
She tried to sit up, had to get out of here, away from them, but her limbs felt heavy, her head foggy. “What did she do to me?”
“Ketamine,” Lancelot replied. “And they gave you something for the pain when they splinted your hand. It’s going to take time to get it all out of your system.” He pressed on her shoulder once more.
Though her body was failing her, her voice—though hoarse, sore from sucking in too much saltwater from the ocean—worked just fine.
“Don’t touch me!”
Lancelot pulled his hand away like he’d just touched a piping-hot stove. “Sylvie—” he started.
“Don’t call me that. You don’t get to call me that!”
“Please, Sylvia,” Hugo said. “Give us a chance to explain.”
“Explain what? That everything you’ve said and done since you’ve gotten here has been a lie?”
