A Sharpness On The Neck (Saberhagen's Dracula Book 9) by Fred Saberhagen (book suggestions TXT) 📕

more comfortable, and even stronger, as I am. Healthier, lying flat on this stone floor, whether you examine me or not. It may seem strange to you, but it is so.”

      “Come, though, at least turn over a little and let me see,” At first glance, she could tell that the main bandage over the ribs had loosened notably, as if the man could have lost weight over the last few hours. The physician’s daughter, a briskly persistent nurse, looked under the bandage, then blinked her eyes at what she saw. “Mon Dieu, but you heal fast! There is a notable difference from just a few hours ago.”

      He grunted. “At times in the past, when I have been injured—others have told me that I heal with great rapidity.”

      There was a persistent hesitancy between them, and at last the young woman, having pulled off and thrown away the patient’s bandage which was no longer really necessary, decided to deal just as firmly with the other matter, the one lying unmentioned and unresolved between them.

      Sitting back on her heels again, running a hand through her long hair, she announced briskly: “Citizen, I think that we have seen each other before.”

      Once more settled in the unlikely looking position that gave him greatest comfort, he blinked at her benevolently. “That is possible. Perhaps we shared a dream.”

      “No.” She shook her head, being firmly practical. “You must know what I mean, and it was not a dream at all. This morning, even while you still were standing outside the house, I recognized you. We met in Paris, one night near midnight, at the cemetery of the Church of the Madeleine, the place where the bodies from the place of execution are brought to be buried.”

      “Yes, I am familiar with it.”

      “We had a very strange conversation in that cemetery, you and I. I still remember it pretty well, though it took place a year ago, or even more. I was there with my cousin, my teacher, Marie Grosholtz.”

      The man on the floor did not comment. He waited, as if withholding judgment.

      “You came upon the two of us while we were at our work there in the churchyard, and you startled us.”

      “For that I apologize.”

      “You are forgiven. But the good God knows what you must have thought that we were doing. With the heads.” Melanie tried a little smile, which brought no response. “You made a strong impression on me.”

      He watched her, steadily.

      She drew herself up a little and tried again. “From certain remarks you made at the time, Citizen Legrand (I think that then you may have given us a different name), I understood you to be completely convinced that my cousin and I were up to some … that we were cutting up dead bodies in the pursuit of some kind of black magic. But I want to tell you that was not the case at all … and it occurs to me that now, meeting Citizen Radcliffe here with me, you may believe he is also involved in that sort of wickedness. But the accusation is not true of either of us. I can explain.”

      Slowly the supine man shook his head. “I make no accusations. You may have noticed that I offer no reason for my own presence in the graveyard.”

      Melanie Remain looked at her patient—if it was still possible to call him her patient—carefully, studying him for the space of several breaths. Then she said: “I do not think you were there on any business of witchcraft either.”

      “Certainly I was not.” There was more than a touch of asperity in the answer.

      And somehow, without either party seeming to be fully aware of the fact, he had taken her hand in both of his, and had absently begun to stroke her wrist, a procedure to which she made no objection—indeed, she hardly seemed to notice.

      Then abruptly he released the hand of the young woman, saying: “And it is all one to me, whatever the cause may be for your unusual interest in the bodies of the dead.”

      Meanwhile the young servant girl, who was still faithfully holding the light, had inched a little closer, and a little closer still. She continued watching in silence, fascinated. Her gaze had become locked on the dark eyes of the man lying on the floor, who was taking no notice of her at all.

      Melanie too was gazing intently at the visitor, and now she shook her head decisively. “I see you do not believe me, M’sieu Legrand, when I protest my cousin’s innocence and mine. But I tell you no, it is not what you are thinking. Some deluded folk may still believe that bits of flesh and bone cut from rotting corpses have magical value, but to me that is all superstition. Did I say anything to you at the time, to give you the wrong impression?”

      The man who reclined on the floor shook his head again. Once more he raised himself a little on one elbow, and his voice strengthened. “It makes no difference to me what you said then, and I have told you that I require no explanations now. You and your cousin Marie may dig up all the dead bodies in the world, and play games with all the loose heads—my only concern is that nothing you do will bring harm to our host I now owe my life to M’sieu Radcliffe. I heard him swear to defend me against my enemies. In my time I have heard many men swear many things, and I believe I can tell which ones mean what they are saying. I can do no less for him in return.”

      Melanie bunked. “But I have no intention of harming him.”

      “Good. Then you will readily comprehend that he should not become involved in any dangerous graveyard operations—whatever their object.” Legrand’s voice suddenly sharpened. “Is he connected with such matters now?”

      “No!” The young woman was quietly vehement. “He knows nothing about my cemetery work.”

      “Good. And I think it will be well if he