Wilderness of Mirrors by Ella Skye

and dragged himself to his feet. “What would you have me do? She’s been vetted. I just don’t believe telling her is good practice.”
    “You confided in me.” David flushed the toilet after wiping its rim. He twisted the tap and cleansed his hands thoroughly.
    “You’ve military experience.” Nigel attempted to tuck in his shirt. “And you know how to keep your mouth shut.”
    There was a shake of hands; water made rivulets on the mirror. “Give your sister some credit. She doesn’t gossip nearly as much as you think.”
    “No.” That was true. Nigel wasn’t completely certain at that moment why he’d never told her. “I don’t want her worrying about what I do. She’s got enough on her plate playing Queen. Being a mum.”
    David dried his hands, fingers and arms. “Sometimes I get tired of lying to her. She grills me. Knows somehow that I’m in on it.”
    “I’m sorry.” Nigel knew about lying. It was a skin-shredder.
    He watched a smile grow across his brother-in-law’s narrow Welsh face. “Don’t be, I’m just exasperated about a few things of late…treating you hasn’t troublesome in the least. I’d be flat on my backside with your injuries. You should be more careful - at least for the next two weeks. Don’t do anything foolish.”
    Nigel ran a hand over his short hair, embarrassed by weakness. “So I’m to pretend I’ve got flu?”
    “Either that or a hangover.” David’s teeth gleamed in the fluorescence. “In either case, you need a bit of food and plenty of fluids. You’re obviously dehydrated.” He paused, a brief impenetrable expression crossing his face. “I’d give you something less harsh, for the pain that is, but I don’t keep anything here anymore.”
    Nigel shook his head. “No, I’m done with that stuff. Flu, it is. I don’t want her assuming I’m an alcoholic on top of everything else.”
    Samantha drove past The Estate’s mellow-stone entrance just as one of the wide mahogany doors swung inward. Dr. Rhys-Chambers emerged. She paused and lowered the window to better see his mouth. “Hello, David.”
    “Sam.” David descended two stairs, hands flapping from his too-short Barbour jacket. “A magical transformation. I loathed the original color scheme.”
    Tamar snuffled her hair, and she opened his window.
    Thank God.
“I’m glad you like it. Have fun today.”
    David made a gesture that might have been surrender or a prelude to death. Either way, she was very certain he’d rather be on his way back to Harley Street. Pity the poor man.
    A second figure slid into view, and Samantha’s heart kicked her ribs.
    Nigel Forsythe.
    Here.
    And looking as though he’d been run over by a foxhunt. The purple under his eyes had gone from lilac to aubergine and his complexion was in need of a mortician’s assistance.
    David held up a finger. Was Nigel his patient? She didn’t think he did office visits at Barkley, but one never knew. “A moment, Sam.”
    He turned and spoke to Nigel, who seemed if anything, to have gone a whiter shade of pallid. The icy sapphire eyes crept from the doctor’s face and inched their way up the side of her car until they hitched a ride on her own.
    She mustered a half-wave, regretting suddenly that she hadn’t woken Nigel to tell him the truth. The sharpness of his distress had lingered about her like a nasty fog. Something about Brad’s story didn’t really add up. Nigel’s misery had seemed more self-inflicted than if he’d truly been set upon by robbers.
    Then, from the movement of his hands, Sam guessed David was informing Nigel of her deafness. The thin end of the wedge. The beginning of the end. The very reason she rarely signed. Pity was more revolting than crimson and yellow.
    Irritated, and chilled by the open window, she reached down to find her scarf.
    A moment later, she straightened up, startled by the sudden proximity of both men. They were just a few feet from her door. Nigel was military-straight, but David