Blue Damask Read Online Free PDF Page A

So.  He loved his mother.  Mother called him ‘Henry’.  A good start.
         “Please call me ‘Elsa’,” she said to his back.  “It may seem a bit forward, but we do not have the luxury of time.  Surely you are aware of your government’s intent.  Its representative, Mr. Marshall, has asked me to prepare you for this duty to your country.  Are you aware of the details?”
         He nodded.  At least he was responding to her now.
         She leaned forward and touched the one buckle that remained fastened across his back.  He shuddered.
         “Are you sorry to leave England?”
         “Do not touch me.”
         She removed her hand from the buckle. She leaned across the short aisle between the seats to pick up her notebook.  She would interview his back, then.  She took the pencil from her ear. She waited until his breathing returned to normal, then asked softly, “Are you in pain?”
         He flexed his arms, his shoulders bunched beneath the canvas and he twisted and lurched to his feet.  He towered over her, glaring.  The neatly combed forelock fell over his eyes and the muscles over his jaw bulged.  His ankles were strapped, his arms lost in the long sleeves could not reach her, but Elsa felt a twinge of fear.  She saw the powerful soldier now, not the injured man.
         She leaned back against the seat and glanced at the door.  Sonnenby had made no sound.  Davies would not enter without a signal.  She looked up at him and told herself to be calm.  So far she had learned more about him from his body than from his mouth.  Jumping up and standing over her was shouting.  Body shouting.  He was answering her question.  This was a dialogue.
         She swallowed and forced her own eyes to speak to him.  “Very well.  I understand.”
         He swayed as the train rocked.  It was hard to balance with ankles bound and arms useless against his body.  She prepared herself to catch him if he started to fall.  She was a tall woman and came from sturdy peasant stock.  She could catch him and lay him down gently on the seats if it came to that.  She readied herself as he swayed again.
         His face relaxed and he sat down across from her where Marshall had been sitting.  He looked out the window for a moment, then back at her.  “Help me escape,” he said.  “I will pay you double what he,” he jerked his chin at the door, “is paying you.”
         “I am committed to helping you escape from your troubles,” she answered carefully.  “But I do not work for money, so you cannot buy my help.”
         His face hardened.  He turned his eyes to the window again.  “You work for him, then.”
         “No,” she said.  “I do not.”  She moved to the other seat.  “I work for you.”  She must be honest.  “And also for me.”
         He looked down at her.  “What is in it for you besides money?”
         She made a little sigh.  “What is valuable to you, is also what I value. Reputation.  It is worth more than your fortune, is it not?”  She watched his face.  One eye twitched.  She had seen this many times in her veterans.  The stigma of a mental breakdown injured them far more than their nightmares and anxiety.  Even after reconciling their terrible war experiences, many were unable to rejoin society.  The mark of cowardice or mental weakness haunted them.  She often ended up treating them for social issues rather than emotional ones.
         She could see this in his eyes.  This pain was from rejection.  She made a mental note because her pencil was on the other seat.  Rejection and loss.  Something that could not be healed.  Something had happened and could never be undone.  There was no escape from that no matter how many buckles she unfastened.
         She saw him read her face and understand.   Doctor Engel was right.  Sonnenby was not insane.  She could cure him.  She would cure