A Most Extraordinary Pursuit by Juliana Gray

cricket ball. The sting made me jump.
    Lord Silverton finished his conversation with the goatherd—that is, the goatherd had nodded sensibly to Silverton’s Greek lecture—and turned toward me. “Dear me, Truelove,” he said. “One can see you’ve never taken a fist before.”
    I wanted to answer, but there was something wrong with my throat.
    Silverton reached into his tweed jacket and removed a silver flask and his own snowy handkerchief. He unscrewed the lid and allowed a few precious amber drops to fall into the linen. “Whiskey’s the thing, you know.” He stepped close, placed his left hand at the back of my head, and applied the handkerchief. “Though it stings like the devil at first.”
    I jumped, but the two hands held firm, and a few seconds later a wonderful coolness replaced the whiskey’s bite. “Is it broken?” I asked.
    â€œGoodness me, no. A bit pink and puffed up, but that will be quite diminished in an hour or two, I should think. Or perhaps a day. Or two. I received worse in the Wall Game. I
gave
worse in the Wall Game, as a matter of fact, and I’m dashed if that’s not when I first realized—”
    â€œAnd the other man?” I said. The side of my face was stiff with pain, making it difficult to speak.
    â€œWhat, the chap with the goats? What about him?”
    I inserted my hand between Lord Silverton’s fingers and the handkerchief and pulled myself away. My pulse was so strongand rapid, I felt the artery twitch the skin of my neck. There seemed to be a dream revolving inside my head, slowing my wits. I looked at the goatherd, who had picked up his staff—the staff! That was what he had hit me with—and was staggering to the side of the road, urging the last of his goats with him.
    â€œWhat did you say to him?” I asked.
    â€œA bit of this and that. Back into the motor, now; there’s a clever girl.”
    He held open the door, and I climbed in, still holding the handkerchief to my cheek. “Thank you,” I said.
    We settled once more in our seats. Silverton leaned forward and said, “Carry on, Nicodemus,” and the automobile lurched forward. The driver was hunched around the steering wheel, making himself as small as possible, glancing back at Silverton from time to time. His lordship handed me the flask, and I added a few more drops to the handkerchief. The pain was dulling into a commonplace ache, and my blood began to cool in my veins, replacing shock with relief. After all, it wasn’t a mortal wound. Could, indeed, have been much worse, had the goatherd put a little more time and strength into the blow.
    I nodded to the driver. “Is his name really Nicodemus?”
    â€œSo he has given me to understand.”
    I stared at the tanned neck before me, the black curls ending in a thick woolen cap.
    â€œI may have been foolish,” I said.
    â€œNot at all, not at all.”
    â€œBut he was quite in the wrong. I hope you didn’t apologize for me.”
    â€œOf course not. I simply told him that, as my wife—”
    â€œYour
wife
!”
    â€œâ€”as my wife, you fall to my responsibility alone, and should he have any further admonishments to deliver, he should deliver them to me. After mature consideration, he declined to do so.”
    â€œ
Well.
Admonishments, indeed.”
    Silverton shrugged. “My dear Truelove. As I was trying to explain earlier, there are two things a lady should remember when traveling outside the gentle shelter of Anglo-Saxon chivalry. The first is that it’s best to have a husband on hand to clear up any misunderstandings with the locals.”
    I handed him back his handkerchief. “And the second?”
    â€œNever attempt to interfere with another man’s goats.”

    I waited until I was alone in my room at the Hotel Grand Bretagne in Athens, porter properly tipped and dismissed, before venturing a look at