The Journey: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller) (2 page)

I pulled up my knees and tucked in my blanket, trying to keep the heat loss at a minimum. ‘Just like James Moriarty, Moran doesn’t have the slightest degree of decency. He made a fake attempt at raping me so James could stage a rescue. Perhaps they hoped I was naive enough to sympathise with James after he
saved
me from Moran. But whatever their true intentions, they enjoyed themselves, I’m certain.’

Coughing, I turned my back to Holmes and closed my eyes. Sleep would take me away in mere minutes. ‘Moran’s brain is exceptionally sharp when he is hunting,’ I added quietly.
 

‘Your cough is getting worse,’ he said.

‘I noticed.’

Listening to his breathing, I wiped the memories of Moran and James away, knowing it wouldn’t be long before they returned. As soon as the dreams woke me, I’d take the second watch.

Someone screamed. My eyes snapped open. Oilskin above my head. The gentle tapping of rain. A hunched figure next to me. I wasn’t in bed murdering James.

‘You can sleep now,’ I croaked and sat up. Tinted with fear, my voice was a stranger to me.

He settled down and rolled up in his blanket. ‘Wake me in two hours.’

I didn’t want to talk about James, nor did I seek consolation. Holmes had accepted my wishes with a nod and I was glad I never detected pity or disgust in his face. He could conceal his emotions well.

The sound of water rolling off leaves and cracking down onto our tent, along with Holmes’s calm breathing, were all I could hear. Nature’s quietude was a beautiful contrast to London’s bustle. It almost felt as though we were silent together, nature and I.

Holmes’s feet twitched a little. Only seconds later, his breathing deepened. I waited a few minutes, then struck a match. A dim golden light filled the tent, illuminating his face. It amazed me every time. He looked so different. The sharp features softened, his expression unguarded. I flicked the match in the wet grass, peered outside, and thought of the day I had kissed him. The memory was far away; violence and betrayal had bleached it to a dreamlike consistency.

A shy flutter — as though I had swallowed a butterfly and it now brushed its wings along the inside of my uterus. I put my hand there, trying to feel more than just the touch. Where was the love I was supposed to feel for the small being inside? For the first time in my life, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know where to find the energy to keep fighting. Hadn’t I found solutions to the most impossible situations? Even the fact that women were prohibited from studying medicine hadn’t kept me from entering a university. Having been abducted by James Moriarty, a master in manipulating the human mind and will, hadn’t kept me from changing my fate and manipulating him in return. But giving birth to his child and raising it seemed a very high mountain to climb. Too high for me.

I listened to my own heartbeat. How fast was the child’s heart beating? Like a sparrow’s, perhaps?
 

Was this non-love based on my hate for its father? Or was I so egoistic and driven that I could not endure the life of a woman? Being the lesser man and unable to disguise my sex any longer, medicine and bacteriology were out of my reach. A single mother was hardly acceptable, but a widow and mother who refused to marry long after her mourning year was over wouldn’t stand in much higher esteem.

No medical school would take me as a lecturer. The only alternative for me was to open a practice. But who would choose to be treated by a woman if there were plenty of male practitioners? No one, certainly. But these were mere difficulties, easy to overcome with enough willpower and energy. Why could I not welcome this child? Was it truly so dreadful to be a mother? Until a few weeks ago, I had no reason to even think about it, for I had believed myself sterile. Mothers were the other women and I was something else entirely.
 

Gradually, the knowledge crept in and a chill followed suit. I was terrified of never being able to love my child, of not being the mother a newborn expects to have. All my accomplishments had been won by pretending and lying. I had pretended to be a male medical doctor, affected the wish to develop weapons for germ warfare, and faked love for James. I would never be able to feign love for my child, the only other person who would be able to see through my charade.

Holmes began to stir, coughed into his blanket, and cracked one eye open. ‘You did not wake me,’ he noted.

‘You said two hours.’

‘How long did I sleep?’

I shrugged. How would I know? His watch had produced its last tick yesterday when it fell in a puddle.
 

‘It stopped raining a while ago,’ I noted. ‘Sleep. I’m not tired.’ At that, my stomach gave a roar. He reached for the bag, but I stopped him. ‘At my rate of food intake, we’ll have nothing left by tomorrow morning.’

He looked at me and I wished I were far away. ‘I’ll hunt fowl,’ I said.

‘We cannot make a fire,’ he reminded me.

‘Humans must have eaten raw meat before they discovered what fire is good for.’ I pulled my crossbow and the bolts from the rucksack. It was an old and worm-eaten thing, once made for children to hunt rabbits and help provide meat for their family. I had found it hanging on the wall of my cottage, and its small size and lightness served me well.

I pushed the oilskin aside. Water dripped from the trees. The ground was muddy.

‘I will stay close and watch for any movements. This,’ I held up a bolt, ‘is as silent as Moran’s rifle. Go back to sleep.’

Holmes grunted, pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders, and closed his eyes as I slipped out of the tent.

— two —

I
wiped my hands on the wet grass, turning the fresh green into a dull red. Holmes opened his eyes when I entered the tent. The light grey of one of his irises had been rendered pink.

‘Your right eye is even redder today. Let me see.’ I bent closer to investigate. Yellow pus had hardened in his eyelashes. ‘Infected. I thought so. Hmm…’ I gazed outside. The sun rose. Golden rays tickled fog from the heath. ‘I’ll make a fire. Pine might burn well enough. I need to prepare medication before the infection spreads to your other eye.’

‘The smoke—’ Holmes began.

‘Fog is rising. The smoke will not betray us.’

‘Well, then. I will make the fire.’ He sat up and rubbed his sticky eyelids. ‘You haven’t slept enough.’

Sleep wasn’t my best friend these days. Reluctance slowed my movements when I climbed out of my shoes and under the covers.
 

When Holmes was leaving the tent, I called, ‘If you come across chickweed, pick a handful.’

A hand gripped my shoulder and pulled me away from Moran’s fist. I found Holmes’s knees next to my chest, his face close to mine. Too close. Coughing, I turned away from him.

‘Breakfast,’ he announced.
 

I followed him outside and the odour of fried meat sent a flood into my mouth. A log served as a bench next to the fire he had made. The resin in the pine branches popped and crackled, spitting wooden shrapnel at the animal that hung over the flames. My metal cup was filled with rainwater and I placed it next to the embers. ‘Did you find chickweed?’

Holmes pointed to a small pile of green behind me. I took a handful, picked off the dirt, and stuck it in the cup while he cut off the hare’s hind legs.
 

I wondered why he wanted us to be so careful about the fire. If Moran was tracking us — and I doubted it very much — I preferred him close. Arm’s reach would have been perfect.
 

‘A rather ropy specimen,’ Holmes remarked at his attempt to bite off a piece.

‘You look happy enough, though.’ My mouth was so full that the words came out mushed.
 

‘I merely stated a fact, not an emotional state.’

The water emitted wisps of steam. I wrapped the hem of my skirt around my hand and moved the cup away from the fire.
 

‘What a curious little plant.’ He pointed at the chickweed. ‘I wasn’t aware it could be used to treat infections.’

‘Chamomile infusion is used more frequently for that purpose, but it leaves the cornea dry. Chickweed, on the other hand, doesn’t. There is only one thing that heals eye infections quicker than this plant.’

‘Which is?’

‘Breastmilk.’

He burst out laughing; one short eruption accompanied by a flying piece of hare. We watched it land in the fire and transform into a fleck of coal. ‘I do not know a single grown man who would let a woman pour mother’s milk into his eyes,’ he said.

‘The middle and upper classes live a much more restricted life than us poor sods,’ I supplied. ‘Besides, it’s not poured. It’s squirted.’

Another piece of hare shot into the fire.

The animal was stripped to the bone and for the first time in four days, our stomachs were full to the brim. I touched the cup with the chickweed infusion. It was lukewarm and ready to use.

‘You’d better lie down on the log. I’ll wash your eyes with this.’
 

Holmes did as asked and I kneeled down next to him, my skirt soaking rain off the grass.
 

‘Eyes are extremely temperature-sensitive,’ I cautioned. ‘Tell me how this feels.’ I spilled some liquid on his cheek.

‘Good.’

With my one hand holding his lids apart, I poured the infusion into the one eye, then the other, until the cup was empty. I wiped his face with my palms, flicking the green droplets out of the four-day stubble. ‘We’ll have to repeat this.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, avoiding my gaze.

It hadn’t rained the entire day and — according to Holmes — we made good headway. Good headway to where, precisely, I didn’t ask. I could see the plans brewing in his head, his half-here, half-there expression, his working jaws. Once in a while, my lack of interest surprised me, but the void of energy and willpower muffled all thoughts. The days consisted of rising in the morning, walking from A to B, and going to sleep to be woken by terror. The why’s and when’s and how-far’s no longer mattered to me.

Twice, we spotted a farm and gave it a wide berth. While passing a shepherd and his dogs, Holmes spoke in a thick accent I didn’t understand. I kept my head low and greeted the man with a nod.