Hope and the Patient Man

by Mike Reeves-McMillan

  They checked the light. They checked the spell, and Hope found a small error and fixed it. They reassembled the box.

  Nothing happened.

  They took the box apart again and re-checked the spell.

  “It looks fine to me,” said Hope at last. “If there’s an error, I’m missing it. Here, let’s make the sixth wall of the box another plate with a light sigil, and try that.”

  They tried it, and the copper spur twitched.

  “Might be the seal on the box,” said Wheel. “I’ll make it thicker.”

  They set up the apparatus again, and this time the copper spur twitched when Hope activated the light at the other end of the string. They shared smiles.

  “Right,” said Hope. “Everything else from here on in is mechanical implementation detail, and I can leave that in your hands, can’t I?”

  “I’ll need a master for that spell, though,” said Wheel.

  “Of course. I’ll tighten it up a bit. I think it can be more efficient.”

  She spent a couple of hours getting the spell into a neat sigil that could be acid-etched from a template, by which time the gnomes had made a prototype of the lookup table for the numbers one to four, drilled the holes, made the horizontal and vertical arms, linked them to cranks, and set up the light box at the intersection. Rosie and Dignified had come up with a design whereby the motion of the little copper spur made a wheel turn by one step, which would both move the register on the adding machine and also move the next glass string into place opposite the sigil. If that string was also lit, the motion would repeat.

  The gnomes took the sigil master and the design through to the manufactory, and quickly produced a light-kicker (as Rosie had dubbed the device) and the other required gearing. They assembled the whole machine on a workbench and stood back.

  Everyone looked at Rosie.

  “Me?” she said, then stepped forward and seized the two multiplier cranks. “Let’s see. Three times four.” She wound one crank three clicks, the other crank four clicks, and then activated the light spell.

  The readout wheel, which had the numbers one to sixteen marked around its circumference, clicked round and stopped at twelve.

  Rosie and Dignified grinned and embraced, and Wheel said, “Well done, everyone.”

  “Yes,” said Rosie. “Especially Hope.”

  “I just connected some things,” said Hope. “I get the feeling we’ll do that more and more as we work with the Institute.”

  Rosie nodded. “Well,” she said, “we have some clever design work to do now, to make it as compact as possible, deal with powers of sixteen and the like, but I think we’ve had the key breakthrough. Coming, Dignified?”

  She led him back into the lab, and Hope, after saying goodbye to the gnomes, headed back to the flat. She had enjoyed getting back into the intellectual challenge and actually doing some magic, but she could tell that she oughtn’t to push it any further. A headache lurked like a storm cloud on the horizon, even after the brisk walk home, and she spent what little was left of the afternoon making some more dumplings to Patient’s recipe.

  Rosie didn’t come home that night either, and Hope ate dumplings by herself (they weren’t terrible, though they weren’t as good as Patient’s), then went to bed early.

  She continued to drop into the lab throughout the shift-round, trying to detach Dignified from the calculating machine long enough for him to review her articles, and consistently failing. She also dropped into the Institute, chatting with the magical researchers to find out what they were working on and what they were stuck on, and drafted most of the rest of her pieces.

  Rosie continued to sleep at the lab. At least, Hope assumed that sleeping was among the activities that went on, based on the fact that she seemed to be able to function.

  Finally, on Threeday morning, Hope cornered Dignified and stood over him while he went through the articles. Rosie and the gnomes were producing a full-scale prototype, and didn’t disturb them.

  “This is good,” he said, after reading through the first piece. “But this here, that isn’t quite what I use that notation to mean. Here…”

  He stood at one of the boards. An hour later, she understood something new about mathematics, and had a complete revision to do on her first article.

  She managed to shepherd him through two more before Rosie came back and demanded his presence.

  “Problems?” asked Hope.

  “No,” said Rosie, grinning. “We got it working.”

  The device was housed in its own desk, with the registers for setting up the problems and reading off the answers built into the desktop, and a large cabinet underneath, where the drawers would be on an ordinary desk, containing the main works. The operator sat at the desk, set the registers by clicking the wheels around to the correct numbers, chose whether to add, subtract or multiply them (division was a hard problem, and something for the future), and set the device in motion by depressing a pedal under the desk. The machinery then whirred and clicked and read out the answer, both on another set of wheels and also in printed form on a continuous roll of paper running out of the front of the cabinet, just under the desktop. A wire basket collected the paper.

  Rosie seated herself at the desk and demonstrated, using some numbers she had previously calculated by hand. As she finished, Hope led a round of applause.

  “Now,” said Rosie, “we can get on with those calculations for the flight crystals.”

  “I suspect that this tool you’ve invented to help you with that task will be just as important as the task itself,” said Hope. “Can I get an image of this? I want to show it to Gizmo and his people.”

  Wheel produced one of the manufactory’s documentary imagemakers, one which provided for rapid transfer of the image onto ordinary paper from the glass slide, and Hope took several views of the calculating desk.

  “Don’t be at all surprised if you have an order for sixteen of these on Oneday,” she said, slipping them into an envelope with a note. She didn’t have time to go over to the Institute herself; Patient would be here soon.

  “If Uncle Gizmo can afford sixteen of them, his Institute’s wealthier than I thought,” said Wheel. “The adding machine costs a gold pillar. I haven’t even worked out what this costs yet, but it’ll be easily twelve times that, if not more.”

  “The Institute is well funded,” said Hope. “But you’re probably right. He might have to settle for eight of them.” She sealed up the package and slipped it into her pocket to drop in the post on her way to the ferry wharf.

  It was still there when she met Patient, because it dug into her hip and reminded her. “Oh!” she said. “My memory is still bad. I have to post this.”

  They detoured to a post office, and arrived at Lily’s a couple of minutes after their session’s start time. As they sat, Patient took her hand. His head swivelled, as if towards a sound, and he said, “What?”

  “What?” she replied.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, well, I know you don’t like to be late or keep people waiting.”

  He blinked at her slowly. “That’s not all,” he said, still holding her hand.

  “All right. I know that the first thing I have to do is admit that I got in the bath with you after we agreed not to do that.”

  “And…?” he said.

  She sighed. “And I have an article due on Oneday morning, and I only just got the changes from Dignified, so I’m going to have to work on it tomorrow. During the time you’ve set aside to be with me.”

  He looked at her closely for a couple of heartbeats, then nodded and let her hand go. “All right,” he said, “that’s everything.”

  Lily, who had been watching silently, began slow applause. “Do you know,” she said, “you have to have some mindmagic talent to be able to do that. More than a little, I would say.”

  “Interesting,” said Hope.

  “But we’ll talk about that later,” said Lily. “First, tell me about the b
ath.”

  As they emerged, hand in hand as always, Hope asked, “So you’re not upset because I have to work tomorrow?”

  “I’m just glad you can work. I mean, obviously I’d rather we spent the time together, but I need to be realistic. You’re going to have to work sometimes. You’re an important person.”

  “I don’t know if I’d go that far.”

  “Of course you are. Definitely to me, but also in general. If I’m going to set my sights on a woman who’s too good for me, I have to expect a certain amount of competition.”

  “Oh, hush,” she said, pleased. “I am not too good for you, and you know it. Now, what do you want to eat tonight?”

  “Are you cooking?”

  “I’m getting better at those dumplings you showed me. They’re still not as good as yours, though.”

  “Well, let’s see if we can fix that.”

  That night, they were able to indulge in deep, slow kisses for a long time without the aura of the curse looming. Hope finally tore her mouth from his and snuggled into his chest.

  “If we keep doing that,” she said, “I’m probably going to assault you. So we should stop.”

  Patient sighed. “That was nice,” he said.

  “Mm,” she agreed. Her breathing gradually slowed, and she slipped into sleep, held in the circle of his arms.

  After breakfast next morning, they prepared for their exercise, following Lily’s suggestion of the previous day.

  “How’s this?” asked Hope, wrapping one of her shirts around his head at eye level.

  “It’s a bit bulky. Do you have a scarf?”

  She fished around in her wardrobe and found a thick, dark scarf.

  “I recognise that,” he said. “You were wearing it when we met.”

  “That’s right,” she said, pleased that he remembered, and tied it carefully around his eyes.

  “Can’t see a thing,” he reported.

  “Good. Shall I lead you in there?”

  “Can’t I take it off and walk in there myself?”

  “Well, if you want to be boring.”

  “All right,” he laughed, “if you really want to. Give me your arm.”

  She led him, blindfolded, into the bathroom and undressed as she watched him do the same, leaving only the scarf in place. Then she helped him into the bath, which had been running while they took their clothes off, and guided him to sit facing the taps.

  “So,” she said, “I thought I’d wash your back first. Then you turn round, and I’ll wash your front. Then I turn round and you wash my back, and finally I turn back around and you wash my front.”

  He nodded. “Makes sense.”

  She lathered up a cloth and began, washing him caressingly, as he had her the previous week. To rinse him, she used her left hand, while the right held the soapy cloth. The strong muscles of his back trembled and jumped under her hand.

  “All right,” she said, “turn round.”

  “I’m going to have to stand up,” he said. “My leg won’t bend that far.”

  He stood and turned, and she looked up at his nude body appreciatively. As he re-seated himself, she worked more soap into the cloth, and then began to wash him, starting with his face. She moved down across his broad shoulders, down his muscular arms, and washed each finger separately, caressing his hands with hers. Their legs tangled together, his over hers.

  “Enjoying yourself?” he asked.

  “Enjoying you.” She moved to his chest, soaping the hair and then caressing the soap off with handfuls of water. When she reached his stomach, she stopped and switched to his legs, being careful with the injured one, taking time to run her fingers over the entry and exit scars.

  “Does that hurt?” she asked.

  “No. But there’s a dead patch lower down that’s never got its feeling back. It feels numb. Don’t linger there. Yes, there.”

  She also made herself not linger too long between his legs, since that wasn’t the point of the exercise, though she did wash what she found there very thoroughly. It obligingly unfolded for her.

  “Right,” she said, letting go reluctantly. “I’m going to turn round and hand you back the cloth, and you can do my back.”

  He washed her as she had washed him, tenderly and appreciatively. He, too, was perhaps more thorough with some parts of her than others, though he didn’t cross the line from caressing to rubbing. When she was thoroughly clean, she stood up.

  “What now?” he said.

  “Now I’ll help you out of the bath, and we can dry each other.”

  He smiled below the scarf, still firmly in place over his eyes, and she guided him over the side of the tub, took a towel and began to dry him gently and thoroughly. She wrapped a towel around herself to keep from chilling, but when she had finished with him she removed it and handed it to him, guiding his hands to her.

  As with the wash, his temporary blindness led to a few fumbles and brushes that, while not intended, were thoroughly appreciated by both parties. When she was dry, she took the towel back from him and stood looking at him.

  “Are you going to get dress…” he asked, the last part of his sentence lost as she stepped forward and kissed him, her tongue plunging into his open mouth. He gave a start, grabbed at her to steady himself, and, as she pressed herself against him, tried — though not particularly hard — to break the kiss. After a moment, he began to return it, and his right hand slipped downwards to her hip. She felt his excitement against her belly.

  Abruptly, her vision went red, and then black, and a loud roaring noise seemed to rush down on top of her.

  She came to on the bathroom floor, her head pillowed on towels, with Patient shaking her and calling her name. He had torn off the blindfold, and his eyes were filled with tears.

  “Hope!” he said. “Oh, thank Nine. Are you all right?”

  She winced at the soft light of the bathroom. “Head,” she croaked.

  “Your head hurts? Where are your amulets?”

  She couldn’t remember for several heartbeats. “Bedside drawer,” she finally said.

  He left the room, with a final concerned glance at her, and returned with the amulets, wearing his robe, and with hers in hand. He threw it over her nude body and, leaning on his stick, lowered himself carefully down beside her.

  When he clasped the amulets around her neck, her headache eased from “gripped in a vice” to merely “pounding”. She groaned, and tried to sit up. He supported her, taking no notice when the robe slipped to her waist.

  “Are you all right to stand up?” he asked.

  “Not… yet.”

  He waited, his eyes on her face. She took the robe in one hand, nodded, and he pushed on his stick, hauling them both up with some help from her. She pulled the robe on and leaned against him.

  “I think you need to go back to bed,” he said.

  “I think you’re right.”

  He supported her, arm around her shoulders, into the bedroom and helped her into bed.

  “Can you get my nightgown?” she asked. He fetched it from the bathroom, and she unselfconsciously slipped off the robe and pulled the nightgown over her head, wriggling it down over her hips. She fell back on the pillows with a sigh, and he took the robe and looked down at her with a wry smile.

  “I don’t suppose you’ll be working on that article after all,” he said.

  “Oh, curse it!” she said. “I’d forgotten.”

  “Is there anything I can do? Or anyone?”

  “No, only Dignified and I understand it, and he’s no good at explaining it,” she said. “I’ll just have to miss the deadline. Curses. That doesn’t look good for my chances at Senior Mage.”

  “That’s the last thing you should be worrying about now. You rest and recover. Can I get you some tea?”

  “Willow, please. Plenty of honey.”

  When he came back with the tea, she said, “Go on.”

  “What?”

  “Say it.”

  “Say w
hat?”

  “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “I don’t think that really needs saying.”

  “But… you’d been so nice. And I… I wanted you. I’ve never felt… Anyhow. Maybe I should have had a blindfold on too.”

  “I’m flattered. At least you didn’t hit your head again.”

  “I didn’t?” she said, relieved.

  “No. Even in the middle of everything, I made sure I braced myself properly this time. Held on to you until you stopped jerking.” He rubbed a shoulder.

  “Did I get you?”

  “You have a hard head. Smaller steps next time, all right?”

  “Yes, dear,” she said in a resigned tone. He laughed.

  “Do you want me to stay, or do you think you can sleep a little?”

  “Both,” she said, turning on her side and patting the bed behind her.

  Chapter Eighteen: Falcon

  Patient, in some discomfort from almost continuous arousal, used military techniques to ignore it and shift his blood-flow away. They weren’t even really magic, just mental tricks, and he had practiced them frequently since his injury. He lay behind his sleeping beloved and listened to her breathing.

  For the most beautiful woman he’d ever met, he could put up with some inconvenience. “At least we’re making progress,” he told himself. “She seems to be attracted to me for some reason, which I can’t complain about, and we’re making progress every shift-round. Lily seems to think we’ll do well.”

  Still, he couldn’t help worrying. She still wouldn’t let him ask her to oathbond. Even if they did, they hadn’t discussed living arrangements. The more he thought about her riding that airhorse along the winding road between Redbridge and Illene twice a day, with farm carts, loose livestock, and patches of mud around every sharp corner, the more opposed to it he became. The problem was that he didn’t know how to talk to her about it. She acted as if she was indestructible, despite clear evidence to the contrary, and she loved riding the wretched thing. Could he convince her to use the ferry? Would she listen? She was strong-minded, to the point of being headstrong. Look at this latest incident. If she would stick to the exercise, to the rules they’d agreed, and not improvise…