John watched Nora, and even before she spoke he could tell that he was right: she did want to read. It was only because she was afraid it was beyond her level that she said she couldn’t. Or perhaps she felt it was presumptuous to try. She looked at him with hope in her eyes and said she had dreamt of it—and then the hope died and she explained that he didn’t know how dense she was. Byron knew, apparently, but not John, and she didn’t want him to know. John wanted to shake her. The only denseness he could see about her was her stubborn belief that she was. He kept his face calm, though, at least until she said softly that she would do as he wanted. Always.

He could feel the annoyance registering on his face then, and worked hard to conceal it. Did she really think that he want her to be his slave in all but name? That was what she was saying: she would always subjugate herself to him. While he could certainly think of times and places where he would prefer such a thing—for instance, if she would just believe his opinion of her capabilities over her own, it would be much more convenient—in general he would hate such a situation. He recalled having told her it before, too. But if she needed him to reiterate it, he would. He did, and reminded her that he wouldn’t care if what she asserted about her denseness was true as well. She looked at him and asked, “You would teach me anyway? You would not... go away... when you were disappointed?”

She thought he was a quitter? That not immediately achieving success would prompt him to leave off the pursuit of it? Even if he had not just said he didn’t care if she were the daftest woman, with all the implied effort teaching such a person would take, was not his whole life an example of his philosophy of perseverance? It was not that he was making an exception for her, he was simply including her in his general worldview. He never gave up, and he never “went away.” He tried to express this idea in a question, and Nora burst out with, “Because—because..! You think—you think I am not the daftest woman! And then—and then when you find out you will not want—want... You will—because you don’t want me—you don’t want me, and I... don’t know what to do!”

What did she mean? He tried to make some sense of what she said; usually he could reason out some kind of meaning when she started to stammer like this, or at least some purpose, but this time he could not make out anything. “What?”
“I don’t know how to be good... with you. I don’t know what to do.”
Do? Was there a need to do something? He hadn’t asked anything of her, he was fairly certain. “I don’t think I expected you to do anything, except what you want.”
“I...? What I whh...? I don’t understand. Why not?”
“Why not?” There were many reasons why not. Many of them were reasons he could not tell her. He thought about telling her she had nothing to give, except things he could not take—and things he really had no right to ask for and could not even mention wanting from her, either, but that was not something she needed to know—but then she would just ask why he couldn’t take them when everyone else did. She never understood him on that either. So instead he turned the conversation back on her. Let her defend her opinion; his did not always have to be in question. “Why should I expect something of you?”

“Because—because—because...!” He repressed a smile. She had no answer. “It is the only way I can deserve...” Deserve what? What did she not deserve? But she didn’t tell him, only saying with finality, “Because it’s God’s will.”
That was still no answer. That was the sort of thing people said when they meant to end an argument. John repressed a smile. If she thought that would make him be quiet and give up, she had another think coming. He never gave up. And he had the perfect rebuttal to that statement, given to him by Nora herself. “If I am an angel, am I not representative of God’s will?”
“I... thought maybe... Yes, my lord.”
Indeed. It was an unarguable point. Not entirely fair, but unarguable. “Since I am not an angel, the argument has no weight. However, I am still right. I have no right to expect anything from you.” Nora gave him a look of utter confusion, and John smiled. It was time to end the discussion before she argued more. “This is all a digression. Do you want to learn to read?”
“If—if...” She looked around at the books lining the wall, worried. As if she were worried who might overhear her admitting it, she said, “Yes, my lord.”

He knew it! John smiled smugly. “Then you will, as soon as the doctor thinks that it is not too much strain.” He hadn’t actually asked the doctor about it yet, though. He hadn’t been thinking very well either of the times he had seen the man. Extrapolating from the injuries on Nora’s face, he could assume that something equally bad lay under the fabric of her nightgown: how much pain would it cause to sit upright at a writing desk? Such a thing really should not be done until she could wear loose clothing, either, which would probably add more time. She would be fantastically bored in the interim, just lying in bed. He was not a fount of interesting conversation, and the nurse had so far only presented the most taciturn of appearances. How to solve the problem, if he had not yet taught her to read? Oh, of course. He could read. “I will read to you in the meantime, if you would like.”

“Oh, oh, oh! Oh! You would do that?!” Apparently she would.
“Of course?” Hadn’t he just said it?
“Oh! My lord!” She gripped his hand, taking his other one as well. He smiled. It was one of his better ideas to propose this. She was obviously overjoyed with it. “My lord! You are so good to me!”
John was not entirely sure what to say, so he only smiled at her. Then he felt like a fool for smiling too much—he’d just smiled at her a moment ago, too. He dropped his eyes to their hands, trying not to fidget. Now that he looked, her hands were in very good shape compared to the rest of her. There were some scrapes, but they weren’t swollen and bruised the same way. How odd, when they felt so fragile, like they would be the easiest part to break. He ran his thumb along the littlest finger of her left hand, marvelling at the grace still retained when she had been robbed of it elsewhere. Nora pulled his hand towards her face and her split lips, and John quickly changed the direction so that his fingers rested only against her cheek near her ear. The bruising was least there, and he did not want to risk aggravating her injuries.

Something flickered in Nora’s eyes when he did; the ghost of some anxious worry. “My lord? Could y... Could I borrow a mirror? Please.”
John tried to think of a way to deny the request delicately. He was not perhaps Nora’s longest-running acquaintance, but he was quite sure he knew her well enough to know she would be aghast at her current state. What could he say that would both reassure her and refuse her the mirror? He thought of it then, and at that exact moment the nurse stepped forward and said, “I would not advise it.”
Shooting the nurse a quelling glare, John tried to think of a way to recover the situation. The interfering busybody! Nora was not a stupid woman. Now she would know that at least the nurse felt that Nora looked ghastly at the moment. He could think of no proper remedy, however, and settled for, “Miss Nora, if you insist, I will have one brought. But I advise you to wait. No one looks his best just after he has woken up, especially if he is not well.”
It didn’t help at all. Nora raised her hands to touch her face, slowly feeling the extent of her injuries. He thought about stopping her, but it would only leave her imagination to make out the worse possible image. When she felt her cheek, he could see the growing anxiety in her eyes blossom into full-blown panic, and her breathing grew ragged. The nurse shifted her weight by the foot of the bed, and John spared an angry thought for her, though he kept his eyes on Nora. He might have been able to avoid this if the woman had just kept her damn mouth shut! Banishing the nurse from his mind, he calmed himself. Nora definitely did not need him angry at the moment. He squeezed her fingers, taking her other hand from her face gently. “It will heal, Miss Nora.”
She whispered hoarsely, “Whh... Will it...?” She took her hand out of his, turning her head away from him and hiding behind it. She was not touching her injuries, just holding it up as a shield, so he did not stop her even though he felt a pang at the realisation that she felt she had to hide herself from him.
He said with absolute confidence, “Of course.” She said nothing, so he clasped the hand she was hiding behind, trying to give her the comfort that he could not find a way to express verbally. He did not move it, however. He would not force her to stop hiding, only try and persuade her it was not necessary. How could he do that? Humour, maybe? She seemed to like it when he tried when he walked her home that night… He gave it his best shot. “You know, it will be hard to teach you to read if you never look in my direction.”
She laughed—he could see her shoulders shake—but she stayed hidden. He heard her say, “I love you, angel.”
He swallowed. It was so heartbreaking that she thought she had to appease him again. For what? For being beaten by someone else to a state that erased her surface beauty? He said as calmly as he could, “Miss Nora, you remember that I am not an angel.” You do not need to appease me. You don’t. Why can’t you believe me?
She laughed again. “What ever you say, my lord.”
Well, keep her laughing at least? It was better than crying and apologising. “It’s true. I am a very bad man. I have an orphanage burnt every week, and I make a habit of kicking puppies first thing in the morning.”
She giggled, but he had run out of light things to say on that topic. He turned to a semi-serious one, proposing that he would go outside and talk through the window just to see her face. She giggled again, and said, “Silly angel. Why do you want to look at me? I am ugly. Can we not talk like this?”

What? Why did he want to look at her? It was only basic courtesy, wasn’t it, to look at someone while you conversed. Even if she had been so repulsive that he did want to look away, it was still only the gentlemanly thing to do. But she wasn’t—and he doubted very much that any outside injury could make her so repugnant to him—and so he certainly would not feed into her paranoia that she was. Damn it, he had been cajoling enough. If persuasion did not work, he would just let her have the choice of whether or not she really wanted to speak with him. He let go of her entirely, folding his hands calmly on his knee. She shrank in on herself, raising her arms over her head as if to protect herself from a blow, and it took all his will-power to not immediately clutch her hand and assure her that she was safe with him.

He’d said it enough, he reminded himself. She must know it by now. Actions spoke louder than words anyway. She emitted a tiny little, “I’m sorry,” and he steeled himself. He would not acknowledge apologies, either. Maybe she would stop giving them if he never heard them. “I’m sorry.” He would not hear them. That would be his policy from now on. “I didn’t mean – I didn’t mean to be bad, I’m sorry. I just – I just... If I am not pretty, then I am not anything.” If only he could close his ears, it would be much easier to harden his heart to this. She was everything, pretty or not.

He instantly realised the thought was incorrect and modified it: she still had everything that made her herself, with or without beauty. That was what he meant. He wanted to tell her, but he needed her to see him, to look in his eyes and know he meant it. His heart went out to her as he saw her peer at him through her fingers, as if hoping he would not see. He kept his resolve to be firm just until she let her hand down, and then it completely crumbled. He touched her face gently, feathering the backs of his fingers along her jaw and then back again to her ear. “No, we cannot have a conversation if you will not look at me. I am very unaccustomed to people turning their backs on me.” She whispered another apology, and he ignored it except for sliding his hand around to support her head and pressing a reassuring kiss to her forehead. Perhaps not entirely appropriate, that, but she seemed to find such things calming.

He told her honestly, “You are not as pleasing to the eye as you were before, but I still think you are beautiful. It would take more than superficial injuries to change my mind.” He withdrew to a more proper distance, leaving his hand cradling her head, and she gave a muffled gasp. He looked at her, worried, and saw that she was breathing heavily. Was she in pain? A stupid thought—of course she was. But had he added to it accidentally? He hadn’t meant to cause her more pain... She turned and pushed her head into his hand, thrusting her cheek against his palm. He winced. That had to hurt: her stitches were rasping along his skin every time she moved her head. Then she turned her head fully, so that her lips met the skin of his wrist, and he cleared his throat, trying to get her attention so that she would stop.

It had no effect whatsoever. She continued to press herself into him. He wondered what he should do, and then she parted her lips and... was that her tongue? Immediately he pulled back his hand. He was careful not to yank it back so fast that it would hurt her, but he had to get away. He was not sanguine with the idea of her—what was that? Licking? Her tongue on his skin, anyway. At least not yet—ever! He was never comfortable with the idea. Not even when she was well again. Eruditely, he said, “Ha—h’m, yes, well,” rubbing his wrist.
This did seem to catch Nora’s attention, and she said, “I’m sorry.”
The nurse immediately followed this with, “I think perhaps it would be wise for miss to try and rest some again,” saving John the trouble of having to ignore Nora’s apology, as Nora immediately began to plead with him to stay.
“No! Please! I’m sorry! No, no, don’t go, please.” She reared up in the bed, raising herself with some hidden reservoir of strength to grab desperately at his coat with both hands. John was startled at her determination to keep him there: she had not previously displayed such a will to have her way. He smiled slightly—maybe she was willing to take him at his word, at least in some things—and Nora begged again, “Please!”
He cupped her hands in his, feeling the bunched fabric of his lapels underneath. There was really no need for such panic, or had she forgotten? “Miss Nora, I promised I wouldn’t leave until you wanted me to.”

He meant to take her hands from his coat, but she kept clutching at him, so he left them there clasped gently in his own. “You should try and rest, though.”
She didn’t say anything, just looking at him, at his eyes, as if trying to tell if he were sincere or not. He waited, watching her calmly in return; he had given his word, and he would not break it. Not that he would have left now even if he had not. He would stay as long as she would let him. After a while, Nora loosened her grip and let him lower her hands, saying, “Yes, my lord. I’m sorry, my lord. Thank you, my lord!”
John said nothing, only squeezing her hand. He would not mention again that she was too apologetic for nothing. He was spared the burden of conversation when the nurse spoke up again. “You need to drink a glass of water, Miss.”
Nora looked at Mrs Lynley as if the woman were some kind of misbehaving animal, and then back at John to ask, “Is she your friend? Am I to do as she says?”

John raised his eyebrows in surprise. What was the issue with a glass of water? It could only have a positive effect—it was well known that keeping well hydrated was one of the key ways of speeding healing. Further, what did the nurse being his friend have to do with it? It was the woman’s job to see to Nora’s well-being. He told Nora, “She is your nurse. I think it would be wise to do as she says. She is only trying to help you.”
Nora relaxed a little at that, so John looked at the nurse, who poured a glass of water and gave it to him. John slipped his arm under Nora’s shoulder, helping her to sit up a little more. She drank the glass, and then smiled at him. “Thank you.” She touched her lips, wincing when she did, and then let her hand drop back to her lap.
John wondered what she had been going to do or say, quietly watching her as he laid her back on the pillows. She must be in terrible pain, he thought yet again. Who had done this to her?

He quickly put the thought aside. If he dwelt on the question, he would inevitably ask it, which would then upset Nora. He could wait until another time to find out. And then wreak the most comprehensive disaster on the man that recorded history would ever know. But some other time. Nora smiled up at him, saying, “Thank you,” and he allowed his mind to be distracted. He was about to speak when she repeated, “Thank you, angel.”
Why couldn’t she leave over calling him that? He wondered idly how many days of not leaving and not tossing her out of his home and not striking her and, in general, behaving as a gentleman it would take for her to realise she did not need to ply him with unnecessary superlatives. He took Nora’s hand and squeezing it before letting go, hoping it would be soon.
The nurse looked at them both, and then said, “Try and rest, Miss. Try and sleep.”
John saw Nora look at Mrs Lynley again, and although perhaps not quite as disapproving it was still not a very friendly look, and then she looked at him with her eyes full of questioning. What was this? He’d already said the nurse was... oh, Nora must be worried that he was going to leave if she did sleep. He smiled at her warmly. “Yes, I will stay.”

It was probably a lost cause to hope she would believe him, but then again, since he was staying anyway, it would be a delight to prove her fears unfounded. He watched as Nora attempted to rest. She kept closing her eyes, and then opening them to look at him as if to make sure he was still there. John gave an amused smile when her eyes closed after the third or fourth time. He was right there and she still had to check. She would never get to sleep that way, so he started to hum a lullaby, one that he had sung to Mary when she was a child ill with the chickenpox. Singing would be too loud, but the humming seemed to work as he intended. Nora stopped opening her eyes—but then she moved her hand up and started feeling her face again, sliding it along her the less-injured cheek. What was this? Was she starting to worry she was ugly again?

Keeping his low humming up, he reached out and took Nora’s hand. Best to prevent her from damaging the wounds on her face any further. And from getting hysterical about her appearance again. Once he held her hand, Nora seemed to relax completely, her head dropping towards her chest. She started to make a noise, and John tilted his head. What was that? It was a vague, low-pitched rolling noise, almost like... purring? Did that ever happen? People purring? He must be mistaken. He looked at the nurse, but she was sitting in her chair watching them with her hand on her chin. She didn’t look worried, so it must not be the rumble of pneumonia or something similar. He decided to just wait until Nora had fallen asleep to ask: it seemed to take a very long time until the sound subsided into deep, even breaths.

John turned to the nurse and asked, “Was that... usual? That sound?”
The nurse lifted her chin out of her hand and opened her mouth, but all she did was draw in a long breath. John turned back to Nora anxiously. It was not usual. What was wrong with her? Could it be fixed? “Usual?” John’s attention snapped back to the nurse. “No. No, I would not say usual. But I would not worry.”
No? Even if it was unusual? Did she even know what it was? “But you’ve heard that before? It doesn’t signify that she’s worsening?”
Mrs Lynley gave the tiniest of smiles. “No, it does not. On the contrary, it appeared to me a very good sound. I would say it signified enjoyment and content.”
John frowned. It appeared? She would say? He eyed the nurse for a moment, but she was the professional, not he. He turned back to Nora, keeping a close watch on her in case the nurse was wrong.

He stayed by Nora, holding her hand as she slept, for another three hours before there was an interruption. Dr Quartermaine was shown in by Haverhill, and the first thing he did was to try and get John to leave so that he could proceed to look at Nora’s injuries. John flatly refused, and no amount of persuasion could cause him to leave. Even if Nora would never know, he would not break his word. Eventually the doctor was forced to make a superficial inspection of Nora’s face, which did not wake her, and then talk to Nelly about the condition of the rest of her. John listened and was happy to hear the doctor thought that Nora was making excellent progress, and that the nurse was apparently quite a good one. That took care of that worry, at least.

At the end of the doctor’s visit, as he was leaving his final instructions for the nurse, John asked the man when he thought Nora might be able to start learning to read and write. Doctor Quartermaine looked a bit surprised at the question, and then said that she could start learning as soon as she felt able. John thanked the doctor, and then after he left set to wondering when he should tell Nora this bit of news. He did not want the woman to push herself too soon just because she wanted to please or impress him. Perhaps he should just keep it to himself until she told him she was ready to start or until she started walking about, whichever came first. He fell to thinking about various outings he could plan for when she was well again—the gallery would have to be high on the list, since he had already proposed that one—and eventually fell asleep on his thoughts.

He dreamed some inscrutable dream about himself and Nora, where he found himself just standing in a blank field of grass with his arm about Nora’s shoulders, and hers about his waist. They neither of them moved for the longest time; for some reason it did not seem unusual or boring. John held her gently, and Nora finally smiled at him and took his hand. Her hand was warm, and she rubbed it softly, whispering to him, “Angel...”
He took her hand in his. “Must you call me that?”
It was the wrong thing to say. She instantly threw his hand away, crying, “I... I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Then she turned and ran away from him, her skirt leaving a trail of glittering pollen knocked from the grass heads.
He tried to run after her, but his feet were like lead. He called out, “Nora! Come back!”
She didn’t come back. She turned back and then the world shook under his feet and he lost sight of her catching his balance. He thought he heard her say, “My lord?” but the world was shaking harder now and the nurse suddenly appeared in front of his eyes, saying, “My lord?”
He jerked. The nurse? How did she get here? He asked dimly, “Wha...?” There was something biting his thigh, too... but it was all so vague and there were swirly patterns under his eyelids when he closed them... Nora was in the field again, happily calling to him, “ANGEL!”
He wanted to go back to her, but the pinching on his thigh was getting tighter and the nurse was in front of him again, blocking out Nora. What did the annoying woman want? “I believe Miss Nora wants to have a word.”
“Hhhh whaa?” He knew that. She was calling to him. What the devil was pinching him? He tried to brush it off his leg, but it didn’t go away. He looked down, wondering why not, and saw that Nora was holding his leg. Nora! He sat up at once, the nurse’s words finally registering. Nora wanted to have a word with him. He felt his features sagging with the remnants of sleep and arrayed them into a smile to hide it; he must be there for Nora. “Are you comfortable? Can I get you anything?”

Nora smiled at him reassuringly. “I am very comfortable, my lord. I am very good. You, on the other hand, need rest. You need to sleep. In a bed.”
What? No, he was to stay here. He laughed and said, “I seem to have been sleeping just now. It is quite enough rest for me, I assure you.” Which he probably shouldn’t have done. He knew he was hard to wake up... then again, the nurse seemed to have had no problem with it. He looked over at her for a moment to say, “Thank you.” It was a good job she had woken him up when Nora wanted to talk to him. Otherwise Nora might have had trouble, in her weakened state.
Nora protested, “Nono. No. No, in a bed. It’s night time.”
So it was. What difference did that make? She wanted him there, and had asked him to stay, so he would. He had, after all, given his word. “I will be fine, Miss Nora.”
“No, you need to sleep. I... Sl - you... Please?” She looked at him with pleading eyes, and it suddenly hit him. She didn’t want him there. She was just trying to say it in a delicate way so he would not be offended with her.
He could feel his eyebrows lifting. She could just say it. “If you wish.” He took her hand off his leg slowly. It wasn’t like he was going to be offended or anything. It was her prerogative. He was in her room. She could and just did tell him to leave.
Nora squeaked, “I love you?”
Plastering a warm smile across his face, John said, “It’s all right, Miss Nora.” There, now she would know he wasn’t offended. And that he felt no prickles on his neck, and that his skin was in fact the right size. Was it too cold in here? The nurse would take care of it if it was. He wasn’t wanted here. He stood up, telling her gently, “Good night.”

Then he turned to the nurse and told her as well, “Good night, Mrs Lynley.” If he stalled for time, maybe Nora would change her mind? Since he was in here anyway... he turned and walked to the door.
She didn’t call him back. He opened the door, and then she said, “Good night, angel! I look forward to seeing you in the morning!”
He was not an angel. He was John Doyle, the Lord Wothersham, and by Hades he would be called by his proper name when being dismissed. He turned back, careful to keep his voice modulated, and told her, “I am John Doyle, Miss Nora, not ‘Angel’. Please rest well.”

Then he left before she could say anything else. He would not have an argument with her as the last thing on his mind before he slept. Not that being sent away was very much better. Why didn’t she want him there now? She had seemed perfectly fine with the idea before. She had even specifically asked him to stay. What had changed? Then he realised. She was angry because he had fallen asleep. He felt a bit miffed. She fell asleep while he was awake, why couldn’t he catch a few winks without calling down her wrath on his head? But at least there was a reason for it, and an understandable one, too. He might feel very cranky if he were as injured as she was and then woke up to find someone comfortably snoozing beside him.

He went up to his room, feeling rather better at having reasoned out the cause of his dismissal, and slept dreamlessly until the morning sun shining in his window woke him. At once he got out of bed. What time was it? Had he been here sleeping, neglecting his duties to Nora? A quick glance out the windows told him that it was only an hour or so past dawn, around eight in the morning. His pocket-watch, fished out of his trousers on the floor, confirmed his guess. It wasn’t even a proper time for him to see Nora yet: he wasn’t sure on the protocols for visiting invalid people in his own house, but it would be generally safe to wait for the same hours as were proper for calling on other people.

Finally shaving himself clean for the first time in a few days, John went through his morning ablutions and then headed downstairs. Helen came out from the breakfast room, so he joined her in there and ate the first good meal he had had since Nora so suddenly arrived in his house. He managed to draw out the breakfast for an hour, filling the time with slightly stilted conversation with Helen, who seemed very amused by how often he checked his pocket-watch—so much so that he finally gave over looking at it so she would stop grinning at him. What was so funny about wanting to know the time, anyway? From nine to ten he had nothing to occupy him, and so he went up to his study to try and get some work done. He had little luck at this, as he found himself back up and pacing the room after two minutes every time he tried to sit down and apply himself.

Finally the clock struck ten and he was downstairs as fast as was seemly. He knocked on Nora’s door smartly, then wondered if he should have waited longer: what if she was sleeping and he had just woken her up? But it was too late now, so he clasped his hands behind his back and stood waiting.