I do not know how the hell I ever got him back up. At first he was no help, he kept passing out. Finally, he got one toe into a crevice and I was able to grasp the back of his jacket. When at last he was sprawled on the ground at my feet, I looked over the edge.

Fifty feet below, the road was blocked by snow and fallen stone. Nobody would be coming that way for a while. The section of cliff above the road was almost perpendicular, a sheer drop of broken, jagged stone. A single blotch of color broke the gray-white monotony of the background—a patch of bright turquoise, unmoving and crumpled.

I bent over John and shook him. He groaned and tried to burrow deeper into the snow.

“Come on,” I said briskly. “Let’s hope the horses didn’t bolt during all that pandemonium. You’ll have to walk or crawl or something; I can’t drag you, my arms feel as if they’re about to fall out of the sockets.”

When I returned to my room, he was still lying across the bed, booted feet dangling and dripping, stained jacket soaking the spread. I put the tray down on the table and bent over him. His lashes were stuck together in starry points. They lay quiet in the bruised and sunken sockets.

“John,” I whispered.

There was no reply. I said, “Kitty, kitty. Here, nice Kitty.”

His eyes popped open. “If you let that damned cat—”

“She’s not here. I just said that to tease you.”

“Oh, God,” said John. He closed his eyes again. “To think I once praised your sense of humor.”

“Just rest easy.”

“I intend to. I don’t intend to move for at least three days. I may die here, quietly and peacefully—”

His voice faded.

“Hang in there,” I said soothingly. “You can die later, after I’m through with you.”

I had to cut the laces of his boots, they were so sodden and twisted. Midway through the ensuing process, he revived sufficiently to sit up so that I could ease his jacket off. Surveying my preparations, he remarked, “I do admire a well-organized person. But I don’t see any thumb-screws or cat-o’-nine tails or—”

“I have everything I need. I wanted to make sure we weren’t interrupted.”

“I see,” John said warily.

“You’ll have to stand up for a minute. I want to change the bed.”

He did so, without comment, clinging to the bedpost for support; I scooped the whole soggy mess of ribbons, papers, and wet spread into my arms and tossed it aside before replacing it with the blankets I had taken from Tony’s bed. The sight of his bruised, lacerated body almost shattered my resolution, but I was determined he wasn’t going to get away with it this time.

After I had tended the scars of battle, I propped him up with a couple of pillows. “Now,” I said encouragingly. “The worst is yet to come. What about a glass of wine to stiffen your nerve? Come on, don’t be so suspicious. I haven’t added anything to it. You don’t think I would poison you, do you?”