Nikola was sitting at his desk, writing something frantically into a little notebook. At times he would pause, count something or quietly mumble to himself and then writing again. It was his way to cope with the fear he'd felt when he'd found out Helen was in graver danger than he'd originally anticipated. There had been no time to deal with it earlier, but after Annabelle had left, it had all come back with a vengeance. Suddenly he'd had to sit down, and poetry was the only thing to make him feel better.
He finished three poems; one carefully bound in form, the others mere streams of consciousness, something he only experimented on tonight, because he needed to pour his heart out immediately and thinking up rhymes was too slow.
He capped the pen, laid it beside the now closed notebook on the desk, and got up to check on Helen.
She was still sleeping peacefully, and he felt an overwhelming wave of gratitude to Annabelle for making this happen. He sat down on the carpet beside the bed, carefully extended his right hand to take Helen's left and pulled it closer to him. Still holding it gently, he pressed it to his forehead for a moment, before emotion got the better of him and he did what he normally wouldn't have dared to: kissed the hand of his beloved tenderly, putting all his feelings for Helen into the simple gesture. He sat there for what seemed like hours, just holding her hand, treasuring the contact he would soon be denied again. it was quite possibly the most beautiful moment in his life – not happiness and exhilaration like when he made a scientific breakthrough, but something way more precious, heart-warming and comforting.
"Nikola?" he heard her voice from a distance and realised he must have fallen asleep. He opened his eyes and lifted his head to face her. So far she had not pulled her hand away from his clutch. The room was dim, but he could tell it was morning already.
"Helen," he breathed out. "How are you feeling, my dear? Are you in great pain?"
"It's bearable, I suppose. What happened? And Annabelle?"
"Annabelle can take care of herself," he dismissed her worry. "You got shot in the shoulder, Helen."
She clearly decided it was her turn to wave off his worries, and she tried to sit up, crying out in pain as she did so. Nikola shot up and pushed her back into the pillows a little more roughly that he'd intended.
"Are you insane?" he reproached. "Your rib is shattered."
"So? I'm still alive, but Annabelle might not be, unless we find her soon," she protested.
"She saved your life last night, Helen. Now she's sleeping it off in your room," he told her. "I went to look for her, as soon as I thought you were going to be all right. She found me, not the other way round. You could have told me what an ancient creature she is. In any case, when we got back here again, you had turned for the worse and she saved you. Everything is all right now, Helen, you do not need to worry yourself."
"Everything, you say? And what am I doing, lying in your bed in my nightgown?" she wondered.
"I didn't want you out of my sight. You are staying here, by the way, I am not letting you leave until you are better. Not that you could move even if you wanted to," he said seriously, not to give her the impression he had planned this all along.
"And the other matter?" she insisted.
"I didn't change you, if that's what you want to know. It must have been the nurse who came along with the doctor last night."
"Very well, then. But Nikola, I really cannot stay here. People will talk."
"Now you are concerned about what people say ? I am not doing anything wrong, Helen, I don't care what anyone else thinks. Besides, Annabelle will be here, and the nurse will come to attend to you (?) every day."
"Annabelle needs to get to London as soon as possible. Speaking of which, what did you do to those two?"
"Crushed their windpipes. Gently," he added.
"So they are alive."
"Yes, of course they are alive. Just temporarily incapacitated. Also, I don't believe they will ever be looking for Annabelle again. But I agree, we should get her to London before others are sent."
He sighed. Why was everything so difficult when she was awake? At night, when he could dream about her, when she was lying there in his bed, silent and beautiful, everything seemed so easy. Sometimes he even felt he could tell her what he had said to Annabelle, both directly and about Helen: that he loved them, each in a different way, of course. But now that Helen was awake, everything was back to its complicated normality.
"Nikola?"
He realised she was looking up at him thoughtfully, wondering what went on in his mind, and he made himself snap out of it and reach safer heights.
"It's Annabelle. She's quite amazing; I shall miss her," he said.
"Oh, I am sure that if you want to stay in touch, you can arrange that somehow," Helen smiled. "I did think you would like her."
"And you are not jealous? Not even a bit?" he returned to his flirty quips.
"Of Annabelle and you? Oh, she's all yours, dear friend," Helen offered and by the way she said the second sentence, he understood she had just out-witted him.
"Very clever," he jeered. "Now stay still, I shall go downstairs to see how Annabelle is doing and I'll bring you breakfast."
"How generous of you," she smiled. "Very well, then. I shall not move until you return," she winked at him.