All she would ever be able to remember afterwards were voices. Voices she knew, and ones she didn't. Gabriel's hysterical repetition of "I'm sorry, I could have done something," through his tears. Benjamin Martin's commanding voice as he gently picked her up, calling for Thomas to saddle his horse, and for Meg to tear up the old sheets in the attic and set water to boil.
And then there was the pain. Raking through her mind and body, tearing her world apart, right down the middle, like someone ripping a sheet of paper, it came. Without origin, or undulation, it throbbed through her. Wave after wave caught at her, surrounded her. Trying to scream, she discovered with fear worse than the ache that she couldn't. The fall had sheered, with a blunt white-hot knife, her mind from her body. Then from some merciful hand came a liquid that brought darkness, cool, sweet, blessed darkness, like the quiet after the rain.
When she again gained realization of her surroundings, the pain had ebbed, but only slightly and she longed to slip back to that dark place again with its blessed peace. Warm, bitter liquid was poured gently down her throat as someone held up her aching head, causing paroxysms of pain to shoot from her chest, legs, and side. "Crying, somebody's crying," Amy Card thought with minimum interest as the pain slowly returned from its brief retreat. "There, there now Mrs. Martin, a stronger young lady I haven't seen," came the gentle voice of old Dr. Abbington. "Mother, Mother's crying," Amy vaguely realized as she made another bitter struggle against her semi-unconsciousness. The sound of footsteps faded gently in the distance leaving Amy with a sense of quiet. Mustering every last bit of energy in her, Amy slowly pushed herself up toward consciousness.
The light that met her eyes was met to be soft, but the aching membranes caused Amy to shudder at the new element. Gingerly moving her hand, Amy searched for the origins of the ache she felt. Fresh soft bandages met her questing fingers. Satisfied, Amy turned to look out the second story window, when a thin silhouette met her eyes. Draped gracefully over the foot of her bed lay Gabriel Martin, with three-inch circles under his tired eyes. Wanting to touch him, to stroke his head, to do anything to prove he was real, Amy struggled to lean forward, meeting only with an agonizing wave of pain. Whimpering softly, Amy lay back and gasped when she realized Gabriel's eyes were open. For a moment all the two could do was stare in disbelief at the other. Then with the spontaneity born of suffering, Gabriel crawled forward to Amy; gently avoiding her bruised legs and sides. Filled with wonder and curiosity, Amy leaned in. Completing the distance Gabriel gently turned Amy's face to his and kissed her. Shock and something new to Amy filled her mind and stomach. Gabriel's mouth was warm and hard on hers and when he pulled back, Amy could barely keep herself from crying out. Turning her chin downward, Amy caught a light in Gabriel's soft brown eyes. Eyes that were never hard or angry were now vulnerable and dangerous, even as they turned on Benjamin and Elizabeth Martin, the picture of shock as they stood framed in the doorway. And in that halted eternal moment, Amy felt rather than knew that vow that had passed between them, the vow that would lead her to theft and murder in the long year ahead.