Robert is reaching into their fireproof safe to retrieve one of his notebooks when he notices a small piece of tape extending off of the side of the top.
He feels the tape, and the key. A key?
He closed the safe most of the way with the key still in hand. It was a heavy thing, the filigree at the top in a different style from the other hardware in the house. He realized that it matched the gridwork that prohibited entry to the two doors on the second floor.
When he had first come to live with her, he had asked. "Nothing to concern you," she had said, but they were not as close then as they were now. She had never brought it up a second time, and the rooms had drifted outside his notice.
He shut the safe, spun the dial around, and walked up the stairs. The key slid into the lock on the left-hand door and turned without protest.
He put his hand to the barrier to move it aside when a wave of remorse washed over him. Stop, it said. Wait until Rosalind is here.
But there were certain things that had been in his mind, and, thinking of them, and growing angry, he decided to open the door.
The room was very small, barely a closet. He reached up for where he assumed the light was and pulled the chain.
Images. A tan jacket and white in his size. A green tie. A photograph of him—
Sleeping—no, not sleeping—
The floor came up to meet him and the world turned black.
He was underwater, or he must be, for his movements to be so sluggish. Rosalind's voice was far away. The water was cold, or he would not be shivering.
"Oh God—Robert—" A strangled noise. "Jeremiah, watch him while I go down to the kitchen and get my kit. He's lost too much blood."
"Are you sure about this, Rosalind? It might be the best thing…"
"Shut up and help or leave." She is screaming now, running down the stairs, a note of panic in her voice.
Large hands rolling him over, checking his breathing. "Well, sport, I should probably do what the little lady says, so let's sit you up a bit, see if we can't get that nosebleed to stop."
His heart thumps with every one of Rosalind's footsteps up the stairs. She sets the transfusion kit down, tears her jacket and shirt off, sets up the receptacle, cleans her arm with iodine, spraying it everywhere, and jams the needle into her arm. Her blood leaps into the tube and starts filling the bottle.
She relaxes, lets it flow for a second. "Get his shirt off and clean his arm with iodine"
Fink does what he is told. His fingers are warm on Robert's neck and it makes him want to throw up. He gets the shirt off, cutting it with a pair of scissors, and the cool wash of iodine goes over his skin. He can hear Rosalind tugging the needle out of her arm and wrapping the puncture mark hastily with a bandage.
Her hands are strong and capable on his arm as she brings up the vein and slides in the needle. Her blood is still warm and he thrills to its heat. Her blood, he thinks. The essence of his beloved. He had no recollection of the earlier transfusions and he is surprised at the happiness it is bringing him.
Fink has brought a blanket and a bowl of warm water, on Rosalind's command, and he is now swathed in warmth, the chills receding. He tries to open his eyes and finds they are stuck together. He tries to swing his arm up to clean them, but Rosalind stops him.
"No, Robert. The needle's in that arm. Let it work."
A warm cloth on his eyes and the sound of a rag being squeezed out in a metal bowl. After a few rinses, he is able to open his eyes.
"You've had better luck with this one, Rosalind, but he seems rather a fool at times."
"Kindly shut your mouth, Jeremiah."
"Can I help you get him into bed?"
"Yes, if you would."
"Where do you sleep, Rosalind?"
"Elsewhere. Not your business." He settles in. "There. Now go."
"As you wish. I'll show myself out."
He walked down the stairs and the door shut.
"I love you, Rosalind," Robert said, or tried to say. It came out as a croak.
"Shhh. Don't try to speak now. I don't know what the hell you were thinking, though, Robert. You could have died."
"Sweet Rosalind," he tried to mumble.
"While you're already feeling awful, I'll tell you what you probably already know. There was another Robert before you. He died, three days after I brought him through. He bled to death. Fink was the only one who knew. He helped me – well, let's just say that if a body needs to disappear in Columbia, Fink is very helpful."
Rosalind cuts the rest of his clothes off and settles the sheets around him. His nose has stopped bleeding and he is warm, relaxed, weak. There is a thought at the back of his mind but it will be there when he wakes.