Part 52 (2/2)

I chose to ignore this bit of advice. Instead, I went to work upon her at once, bending over her and beginning the procedure. I had only just started when I felt my father's rough hand on my shoulder, yanking me back.

”If you won't take your fill, I'll do it for you.” He grinned at me. ”Let's just say there's one more payment to be made for my services.You can have a go at her or I can. But she ain't coming back to life until one of us does.”

I stared at him. ”Why?”

He laughed. ”Because that is how I like it.”

I shook my head. ”Why must you be like this? For what possible reason do you wish to torture and crush your own son? Have you no capacity for love or joy or sentiment?”

He snorted. ”This from the boy who struck me in the face with a hammer and stole my money.”

”You had it coming, as you most certainly know.And, as you say, I might have stabbed you. Will you punish me for showing you that mercy?”

”For being a coward, you mean,” he said with a derisive laugh. ”Don't pretend to be a saint when all you are is a boy who can't ever be a man. That's all there is to it.You're afraid of me, and I have nothing but contempt for a coward. If you can't do things as you like, then you'll d.a.m.n well do them as I like. Now, will you have a tumble with this dead woman or no?”

”I will not,” I said with a n.o.ble dignity certain to fill him with disgust. ”What would Mrs. Tyler say of you if she were here?”

”Don't you speak of her,” my father said, jabbing a finger into my chest. ”Besides, once I break her neck and bring her back, she'll be the first to cheer me on. Now, if you are not going to have at her, you shall see it done.” So saying, he began to unb.u.t.ton his breeches.

”No,” I said, my voice hardly more than a whisper.

He continued to unb.u.t.ton, but he looked at me with a wolfish grin. ”What are you going to do about it, boy?”

I said nothing.

”That's what I thought.” He turned away from me, having pulled down his breeches, laughing, no doubt, at the juvenile delight of thrusting his bare b.u.t.tocks at me. He grabbed Lady Caroline's skirts and began to lift. Then his eyes went wide, in surprise. He staggered backward, one hand straight out, the other reaching frantically for the waist of his breeches, that he might pull them up. He could not grab them, however, and he tripped over his own clothing, falling facedown onto the cold floor.

After inserting it into his neck, I had pulled out my hanger at once, and now there was a gaping hole in the flesh, which bled copiously. My father, still lying facedown, raised one hand to the wound, but blood flowed freely past his fingers.

”You wouldn't dare,” he said. ”You don't have the courage to take a blade to me.”

”Apparently, I do,” I observed.

”You'll . . . bring me back,” he muttered.

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