removed the gloves and laid them on the pile. They walked together in silence to the car.
A FTER driving Sarah to the school, he stopped in town at the pharmacist’s, where he confounded the man with his purchases of mineral salts, Vaseline, cocoa butter, lanolin, saw palmetto extract, and cajeput and sassafras oil. He still remembered the proportions needed for the mixture the physical therapy staff had used at the convalescent hospital to develop muscle tone in recovering patients. There had been some who’d recovered, he reminded himself; not nearly enough, but there had been some. He had to remain focused on that if he was to be of any use at all to Seward and fulfill his promise to the Abbotts.
When he returned to the house, Mary’s sour expression told him all he needed to know. “He’s in a fine mood,” she remarked. “Keep your fingers away from his mouth. He’s liable to bite them off.”
Michael attempted a smile. “I’ll be careful,” he murmured as he climbed the stairs with his sack of supplies.
He found Seward at the desk in his bedroom, which sat before the wide windows overlooking the front lawn. Brushing away memories of a moonlit night and the feeling of being watched, Michael stood still and silent in the middle of the room until Seward made an impatient noise and glared up at him.
“Well? What fresh hell do you have planned for me today?”
“A massage,” Michael said smoothly. “The one we missed yesterday.”
“I’ve had massages,” Seward snapped. “They don’t help.”
“You haven’t had one of mine,” Michael answered, forcing his tone to remain light. “This one will be fairly superficial, to begin improving your circulation. We won’t go deeper until you’re ready.”
Seward’s jaw clenched convulsively, then relaxed. “All right, then,” he muttered. “Let’s get it over with.” Reaching for the cane propped against the desk, he levered himself to his feet. Recovering quickly from his surprise at the sudden capitulation, Michael moved to the bed and stripped it down to the sheets.
When Seward was seated on the bed, he took off his dressing gown, revealing an Oxford shirt and trousers. He shucked off shoes and socks, then swiftly unbuttoned the shirt; Michael noted he wore nothing underneath this time. Standing again, Seward dealt with the trousers, then stood in his shorts, his green gaze direct and challenging. “Is this sufficient?” he demanded.
“Yes,” Michael answered, keeping his eyes level this time. Nodding, Seward sat down again, then made to swing his legs up onto the mattress.
“No, I’d like to start with you in that position, if you can hold it,” Michael said, stopping him.
Seward nodded again, and Michael hastened to retrieve the jar of cocoa butter and open it as he sat on the low footstool beside the bed. Scooping out a small amount of the thick stuff with his fingers, he took Seward’s left foot in his hand and began to stroke the sole.
Seward twitched when the cool butter touched his skin but relaxed gradually as Michael continued his work along the sides and up toward the ankles. Using nothing more vigorous than strokings and frictions, Michael worked his slow way up to Seward’s knees. When he was finally satisfied, he released the left foot and made to grasp the right.
Not surprisingly, Seward flinched at the first gentle pressure on his damaged foot. “It’s all right,” Michael said, easing his grip even further. “I know. Just let me know if I’m hurting you.”
“You’ll be the first to hear,” Seward drawled, but that was the last time he gave any indication that Michael was causing him pain. Watching Seward’s stoic face from time to time as he worked, Michael saw the square jaw set against any betrayal of discomfort.
Returning his attention to his task, he kneaded Seward’s calf gently but firmly, finding evidence of numerous fibroses between the weakened muscles. Employing the tips of his
A FTER driving Sarah to the school, he stopped in town at the pharmacist’s, where he confounded the man with his purchases of mineral salts, Vaseline, cocoa butter, lanolin, saw palmetto extract, and cajeput and sassafras oil. He still remembered the proportions needed for the mixture the physical therapy staff had used at the convalescent hospital to develop muscle tone in recovering patients. There had been some who’d recovered, he reminded himself; not nearly enough, but there had been some. He had to remain focused on that if he was to be of any use at all to Seward and fulfill his promise to the Abbotts.
When he returned to the house, Mary’s sour expression told him all he needed to know. “He’s in a fine mood,” she remarked. “Keep your fingers away from his mouth. He’s liable to bite them off.”
Michael attempted a smile. “I’ll be careful,” he murmured as he climbed the stairs with his sack of supplies.
He found Seward at the desk in his bedroom, which sat before the wide windows overlooking the front lawn. Brushing away memories of a moonlit night and the feeling of being watched, Michael stood still and silent in the middle of the room until Seward made an impatient noise and glared up at him.
“Well? What fresh hell do you have planned for me today?”
“A massage,” Michael said smoothly. “The one we missed yesterday.”
“I’ve had massages,” Seward snapped. “They don’t help.”
“You haven’t had one of mine,” Michael answered, forcing his tone to remain light. “This one will be fairly superficial, to begin improving your circulation. We won’t go deeper until you’re ready.”
Seward’s jaw clenched convulsively, then relaxed. “All right, then,” he muttered. “Let’s get it over with.” Reaching for the cane propped against the desk, he levered himself to his feet. Recovering quickly from his surprise at the sudden capitulation, Michael moved to the bed and stripped it down to the sheets.
When Seward was seated on the bed, he took off his dressing gown, revealing an Oxford shirt and trousers. He shucked off shoes and socks, then swiftly unbuttoned the shirt; Michael noted he wore nothing underneath this time. Standing again, Seward dealt with the trousers, then stood in his shorts, his green gaze direct and challenging. “Is this sufficient?” he demanded.
“Yes,” Michael answered, keeping his eyes level this time. Nodding, Seward sat down again, then made to swing his legs up onto the mattress.
“No, I’d like to start with you in that position, if you can hold it,” Michael said, stopping him.
Seward nodded again, and Michael hastened to retrieve the jar of cocoa butter and open it as he sat on the low footstool beside the bed. Scooping out a small amount of the thick stuff with his fingers, he took Seward’s left foot in his hand and began to stroke the sole.
Seward twitched when the cool butter touched his skin but relaxed gradually as Michael continued his work along the sides and up toward the ankles. Using nothing more vigorous than strokings and frictions, Michael worked his slow way up to Seward’s knees. When he was finally satisfied, he released the left foot and made to grasp the right.
Not surprisingly, Seward flinched at the first gentle pressure on his damaged foot. “It’s all right,” Michael said, easing his grip even further. “I know. Just let me know if I’m hurting you.”
“You’ll be the first to hear,” Seward drawled, but that was the last time he gave any indication that Michael was causing him pain. Watching Seward’s stoic face from time to time as he worked, Michael saw the square jaw set against any betrayal of discomfort.
Returning his attention to his task, he kneaded Seward’s calf gently but firmly, finding evidence of numerous fibroses between the weakened muscles. Employing the tips of his
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