The Highland Dragon's Lady by Isabel Cooper

of it. Mrs. Talbot-Jones was pressing a handkerchief to her cheek, and Colin, seeing both wounds, noticed a dim pain in his own forehead. Putting a hand up, he was unsurprised to feel blood.
    “I’m afraid the chandelier’s a lost cause,” said Mrs. Talbot-Jones. “Pity: I always liked it. Other than that, no. Just…” Her voice died away and she looked back to Mrs. Osbourne.
    “Should we move the table?” Mr. Talbot-Jones asked. “I know one isn’t supposed to remove a knife, but I’m not sure—”
    To widespread surprise—or at least to Colin’s astonishment, and he rather assumed to Reggie’s and Edmund’s as well—it was Miss Heselton who answered, shaky but coherent. “Yes. Crushing is different. If some of you gentlemen could assist?”
    All of the gentlemen assisted. Colin’s chief effort lay in holding back and letting the other two think that he was no more than a wiry young man. The table tilted back and away in a matter of seconds, and gasps of horror went around the room when it did.
    The front of Mrs. Osbourne’s body, from her forehead to her waist, was a pool of blood. Colin couldn’t even see her clothing beneath it. One arm hung limply in front of her, also covered in blood, and with a white glimmer of bone protruding above the elbow. Even he had to wince, and he’d seen plenty of human death over his lifetime, much of it nasty.
    “Oh God,” said Miss Browne. “She’s dying, isn’t she?”
    “We don’t know that,” said Mr. Heselton. He’d already been on his way to Mrs. Osbourne’s side. Now he stood there beside Miss Browne, face pale and rather green. “It may not be as bad as it looks. We’ll just have to hope—and pray.”
    He knelt in the classic pose of bowed head and clasped hands, and Miss Browne knelt beside him. She took Mrs. Osbourne’s limp hand between hers, and her lips moved as well, though even Colin, who could faintly make out Heselton’s quiet prayer, couldn’t tell if she was joining him or saying something else altogether. He turned away.
    “We could at least try to stop the bleeding,” said Reggie. She looked at Mrs. Osbourne and chewed pensively at her lower lip. “I’d never make a nurse, but—”
    “I did, or nearly,” said Miss Heselton. She turned to Mrs. Talbot-Jones. “Have one of your maids bring us some clean sheets and towels, and boil some water.”
    “Good thought, that,” said their hostess, rising and assuming command with a single tug of the bellpull. “It’ll keep the girls occupied too. They’ll have vapors otherwise.”
    Colin thought of how his sister-in-law—who’d been a scholar’s secretary before marrying Stephen, and whose sister was in service herself—would have reacted to that comment, and bit the inside of his cheek to stifle a smile. “You might ask if any of the servants can help us,” he said. “They might know a thing or two themselves.”
    “Most of them were local girls,” Mr. Talbot-Jones said, nodding slowly. “Farmers’ daughters. Practical wenches, I’d think.”
    “Someone around here has to be,” said Reggie.
    The next few minutes became as frenzied as those just after the séance had been frozen. Mrs. Talbot-Jones gave orders with a speed and decisiveness that Wellington might have envied. A variety of maids came in and variously looked faint and left, brought supplies, stayed and rolled up their sleeves, or went to fetch steadying beverages. Miss Heselton and Emma—the maid who’d pitched in—sponged, pressed, and wrapped, taking care not to move Mrs. Osbourne too much. The medium’s eyes opened a few times during the process, and once she regained consciousness long enough to make a feeble sound of alarm.
    “Helen, we’re here,” said Miss Browne. She choked up then, unable to continue, and simply squeezed the hand she held.
    Mr. Heselton took over. “The doctor’s on his way,” he said in a low soothing voice. “Amelia and Emma are seeing to you in the meantime. Just