AN ILL WIND
Written by Ann Rivers ann.rivers@virgin.net
Summary: Following on from Sanctuary – and things are going from bad to worse for Nigel…
Spoilers: Still set after Fountain of Youth, reference made to Headless Nun
Disclaimer: Relic Hunter and its characters belong to CanWest and Fireworks Productions -
though if he were mine, I'd give Nigel one big long cuddle…
For a nunnery, the Sisters of Mercy convent had a grapevine that any security agency would envy.
Within minutes of his arrival, speculation over the return of that "…sweet little English guy…"
was already spreading amongst the convent's more impressionable residents.
But amidst all the chatter, only one person had realised the full need for Nigel Bailey's sanctuary.
Realised, too, that the last thing he wanted or needed right now was an audience of smitten novices.
Leaving Sister Grace to keep the idle gossip at bay, Sister Mary now returned to her own concerns –
namely the awkward, furiously blushing figure that now crept timidly out of the kitchen annexe,
cowering self consciously in a huddle of blankets as he held out the soaking mass of his clothing.
"I – I really am so awfully sorry about this…" Nigel stammered, settling onto a nearby chair –
hurriedly checking that his cocoon of blankets still covered all relevant parts of his anatomy.
"I'd no idea that my jacket had let in so much rain, or that it had gone through all my other gear…"
"Really, Nigel, you don't need to apologise… it's laundry day anyway…" Sister Mary assured him,
smiling gently back at him while she packed his sodden clothes into an already crammed laundry bag.
As Nigel forced out a grin, she then grew more serious and placed a motherly hand on his cheek –
noting in quiet concern that, in spite of several blankets around him, he was still chilled to the bone.
"Well, you certainly got caught in that storm…" she went on, passing him a steaming bowlful of soup.
"I guess with all the wind and rain around, there wasn't much traffic in town for you to hitch a lift…"
Too drained to realise how subtly he was being questioned, Nigel smiled and tiredly rubbed his eyes.
"Actually, there were plenty of cars at Halifax Airport, but… well, um, I couldn't afford to hire one…
I'd used up my daily ATM allowance to… well, pay for the standby flight up here, you see, and…
well, by the time I'd realised I couldn't make any further withdrawals, it was… well, rather too late…"
If anything, Sister Mary was now more puzzled than ever, but she decided to let the matter drop.
Her next question of why he'd not used his credit card to pay for his flight was going to have to wait.
To her motherly trained eye, Nigel Bailey was now in imminent danger of falling asleep in his soup.
Barely touched soup, she noted, watching him half-heartedly steer a chunk of bread around the bowl.
As though sensing her thoughts, Nigel looked up at her and forced out an awkwardly apologetic smile.
"I'm sorry, Sister… I – I know you'd hate to see this go to waste, but… well, I'm just not hungry…"
Practical to the last, Sister Mary just waved away his apology while tipping the soup back into its pot.
"You're exhausted, Nigel… you'll probably feel more like eating once you've had some sleep…"
Too drained to argue, Nigel simply nodded while following her towards the main dormitory wing.
He doubted very much whether he'd enjoy much rest – in spite of a crushing physical tiredness,
he still had far too much on his mind to sleep.
A wry smile settled on Nigel's face as his watchful hostess led him into an already familiar room.
Seeing this, she smiled too – remembering the innocent chaos which his earlier presence had caused.
"I thought if you had the same room, at least you'd know where the amenities are…" she explained,
grateful to see some colour return to his pale, haggard face – if only through a blush of embarrassment.
"Yes… um, thank you, that'll be fine…" Nigel mumbled, not trusting himself to say anything more.
Not wishing to embarrass him further, Sister Mary then nodded towards a pile of clothes on the bed.
"They may be a little on the large side, but Paul has given you some of his spare shirts and overalls…
at least they'll tide you over until your own clothes have dried out…"
Nigel just nodded, frowning slightly at the variety of stains which covered the plaid shirt in his hand.
Not wanting to appear ungrateful, he then nodded once more and smiled in albeit weary approval –
both for the clothes and the heartening squeeze on his arm as Sister Mary tactfully left him to himself.
Once she'd left, Nigel tossed the clothes back and moved to stand beside an already open window,
hoping the briskly refreshing ocean air would help to relieve the turmoil of the last twenty four hours.
In the far reaches of his mind, a faint voice was telling him to close the window and get into bed,
to bring some vital warmth back into his exhausted, vulnerable body.
Instead, with so much turmoil still dominating his thoughts, he continued to stare morosely outside,
oblivious to the post-storm chill which now shrouded itself innocuously around him.
Eventually returning to sit on his bed, Nigel leaned wearily back against the wall and closed his eyes,
resigning himself to a troubled, fretful night where sleep would refuse to come.
But then he'd not accounted for the tiredness which, having been partly relieved, now refused to let go.
Sliding slowly down the wall, Nigel was deeply asleep long before his head came to rest on the pillow.
Oblivious to the breeze that still ran freely through his window, he lay sprawled on top of his bed –
his modest cocoon of blankets providing little protection against the chill of a Nova Scotian evening…
In spite of the efforts of Sister Grace, there was only one topic of conversation the next morning –
Francine LaCroix becoming the centre of attention as she joined her fellow novices at their table.
"You met him in the washroom…?" one of them exclaimed, rather too loudly for her own good –
her next excited question rapidly wilting under a frosty glare from the passing Sister Grace.
While amused by the sheepish apologies that followed, Sister Mary was also slightly concerned.
After seeing Nigel's exhaustion the previous night, she'd left strict instructions not to disturb him.
As the dining room emptied, though, and with the lunch settings also made with still no sign of him,
she couldn't help but feel a niggling twinge of concern.
With the justified reason to return his now dried clothes, Sister Mary made her way to Nigel's room.
Listening for signs of movement, she hesitated for a moment, before knocking gently on the door.
"Nigel…? Nigel, are you alright…?" she called softly, frowning a little at the answering silence.
When no reply came, she knocked a bit harder – staring in surprise as the door unexpectedly yielded.
If she'd not been so concerned, she might have smiled at the thought of possible repercussions.
One extremely handsome young man staying among hordes of admittedly chaste young ladies,
sleeping with his bedroom door unlocked…
Instead, increasingly worried now, she pushed the door further open and peered cautiously around it.
At first sight of the charmingly sprawled figure within, it seemed that her concerns were unfounded.
She even smiled at the realisation that sleep had claimed him before he'd managed to change clothes.
But then she noticed how pale Nigel's face was, made all the more noticeable against his dark hair.
Much paler than it ought to have been – its expression much too peaceful to come from normal sleep.
Aware now of the chill breeze around her, remembering how cold he'd been the previous night,
Sister Mary rested her hand on Nigel's forehead – groaning aloud as her suspicions were realised.
"Oh, no…" she whispered, quickly covering him as best she could before hurrying to the door.
Scanning the hallway outside, she then called out urgently to a group of novices at the far end.
"Girls, I need your help… quickly, it's Nigel… it looks as though he's suffering from hypothermia…
Francine, go into these other rooms and bring me all the blankets you can… in use or otherwise…
Steffie, go to my office and call Dr MacKenzie… quickly now, this is an emergency…!"
Twenty minutes later, the peaceful solitude of Sisters of Mercy convent had become a hive of activity.
Much of that activity was centred around the unnaturally quiet occupant of guest room number 218.
Several hundred miles away, taking an unexpectedly urgent call in her office at Trinity College,
Sydney Fox felt the colour rapidly drain out of her face. The bottom fell out of her world.
"Thank you, Sister Mary… yes… yes, of course…" she finally whispered into the receiver.
"I'll be on the next flight to Halifax…"