She watched him, and he did not move his eyes away, even though they seemed filled with anger. She was almost sure it was anger, not fear.

She looked down to where his broken and splinted hands lay on the sheets. The ends of the fingers below the bandages were slender and sensitive. The nails were perfectly shaped, except one which was badly torn. He must have injured them when he had fought to try to save himself… and perhaps his father too. What did he remember of it?

What terrible knowledge was locked up in his silence?

"I met several Turkish people who were very charming and most interesting," she went on, as if he had responded wishing to know. She described a young man who had helped in the hospital, talking about him quite casually, remembering more and more as she spoke. What she could not recall she invented.

Once, during the whole hour, she saw the beginning of a smile touch his mouth. At least he was really listening. For a moment they had shared a thought or a feeling.

Later she brought a salve to put on the broken skin of his face where it was drying and would crack, painfully. She reached out with it on her finger, and the moment her skin touched his, he snatched his cheek away, his body clenched up, his eyes black and angry.

"It won't hurt," she promised. "It will help to stop the scab from cracking.”

He did not move. His muscles were tight, his chest and shoulders so locked, the pain of it must have pulled on the bruises which both Dr.

Riley and Dr. Wade had said covered his body.

She let her hands fall.

"All right. It doesn't matter. I'll ask you later, and see if you've changed your mind.”

She left and went downstairs to the kitchen to fetch him something to eat. Perhaps the cook would prepare him a coddled egg, or a light custard. According to Dr. Wade, he was well enough to eat, and must be encouraged to do so.

The cook, Mrs. Crozier, had quite an array of suitable dishes, either already prepared, or easy to make even as Hester waited. She offered beef tea, eggs, steamed fish, bread and butter pudding, baked custard or cold chicken.

"How is he, Miss?" she asked with concern in her face.

"He seems very poorly still," Hesteranswered honestly. "But we should keep every hope. Perhaps you know which dishes he likes?”

Her face brightened a little. "Oh yes, Miss, I certainly do. Very fond o' cold saddle o' mutton, he is, or jugged hare.”

"As soon as he's ready for that, I'll let you know." Hester took the coddled egg and the custard.

She found him in a changed mood. He seemed very ready to allow her to assist him to sit up and take more than half the food prepared for him, in spite of the fact that to move at all obviously caused him considerable pain. He gasped and the sweat broke out on his face. He seemed at once clammy and cold, and for a little while nauseous as well.

She did all she could for him but it was very little. She was forced to stand by helplessly while he fought waves of pain, his eyes on her face, filled with desperation and a plea for any comfort at all, any relief. She reached out and held the ends of his fingers below the bandages, regardless of the bruising and the broken, scabbed skin, and gripped him as she would were he slipping away from her literally.

His fingers clung so hard she felt as though she too would be bruised when at last he let go.

Half an hour passed in silence, then finally he began to relax a little.

The sweat was running off his brow and standing in beads on his lip, but his shoulders lay easy on the pillow and his fingers unclenched.

She was able to slip her hand out and move away to wring the cloth again and bathe his face.

He smiled at her. It was just a small curving of the lips, a softening of his eyes, but it was real.

She smiled back, and felt a tightness in her throat. It was a glimpse of the man he must have been before this terrible thing had happened to him.

Rhys did not knock the bell for her during the night; nevertheless she woke twice of her own accord and went in to see how he was. The first occasion she found him sleeping fitfully. She waited a few moments, then crept out again without disturbing him.

The second time he was awake, and he heard her the moment she pushed the door. He was lying staring towards her. She had not brought a candle, using only the light from the embers of the fire. The room was colder. His eyes looked hollow in the shadows.

She smiled at him.

"I think it's time I stoked the fire again," she said quietly. "It's nearly out.”

He nodded very slightly, and then watched her as she crossed the room and took away the guard, and bent to riddle the dead ash through the basket and very gently pile more small pieces of coal on what was left, then wait until it caught in a fragile flame.

"It's coming," she said for no reason other than a sense of communication. She looked around and saw him still watching her. "Are you cold?" she asked.

He nodded, but it was half-hearted, his expression rueful. She gathered he was only a very little chilly.

She waited until the flames were stronger, then put on more coals, piling them high enough to last until morning.

She went back to the bed and looked at him more closely, trying to read in his expression what he wanted or needed. He did not seem in physical pain any more than before, but there was an urgency in his eyes, a tension around his mouth. Did he want her to stay or to go? If she asked him, would it be too clumsy, too direct? She must be delicate. He had been hurt so badly. What had happened to him? What had he seen?

"Would you like a little milk and arrowroot?" she suggested.

He nodded immediately.

"I'll be back in a few minutes," she promised.

She returned nearly a quarter of an hour later. It was further to the kitchen than she had remembered, and it had taken longer to bring the cooking range to a reasonable heat. But the ingredients were fresh and she had a handsome blue and white porcelain mug filled with steaming milk, just the right temperature to drink, and the arrowroot in it would be soothing. She propped the pillows behind him and held it to his lips. He drank it with a smile, his eyes steady on hers.

When he was finished she was not sure whether he wanted her to stay or not, to speak or remain silent. What should she say? Usually she would have asked a patient about themselves, led them to talk to her.

But anything with Rhys would be utterly one-sided. She could only guess from his expression whether her words interested or bored, encouraged or caused further pain. She had hardly seen Sylvestra to learn any more about him.

In the end she said nothing.

She took the empty cup from him. "Are you ready to sleep?" she asked.

He shook his head slowly but decisively. He wanted her to stay.

"You have some very interesting books." She glanced towards the shelf.

"Do you like to be read to?”

He thought for a moment, then nodded. She should choose something far removed from his present life, and it must be something without violence. Nothing must remind him of his own experience. And yet it must not be tedious either.

She went over to the shelf and tried to make out the titles in the firelight, which was now considerable. "How about a history of Byzantium?" she suggested.

He nodded again, and she returned with it in her hand. "I'll have to light the gas.”

He agreed, and for three-quarters of an hour she read quietly to him about the colourful and devious history of that great centre of Empire, its customs and its people, its intrigues and struggles for power. He fell asleep reluctantly, and she closed the book, marking the page with a taper from the box by the fire, put out the light again, and tip-toed back to her room with a feeling of something close to elation.