Black Diaries

59. Racing Heart

I don't know why I expected to wake up in a hospital. I suppose that's just the kind of thing you expect when someone recently beat the crap out of you. But when I opened my eyes, I lay not in a sterile, uncomfortable hospital bed, but in a sinfully comfortable four-poster the size of Kansas, amidst soft, sweet-smelling cushions. The room around me—or should I call it a hall?—looked like it belonged in a palace, with its silk curtains, old-fashioned dark wood furniture and vaulted ceiling.

This can't be hospital, can it?

If it was, I would recommend all my friends at home to get British health insurance.

I listened for the sound of orderlies marching through corridors, beeping heart monitors and all the other noises of a hospital.

Nothing.

No, this really wasn't a hospital.

But shouldn't I be in one? After what had happened...

Now that I thought about it, however, considering what had happened to me, my limbs hurt surprisingly little. Oh, of course I was bruised from head to toe, and my head felt as if it had been hit with the hammer of the thunder-god Thor, but other than that, I felt absolutely great. No bones seemed to be broken for starters. And, as an additional bonus, I was still alive! Yippee!

Someone stepped into my view: a girl in a maid's uniform. I'm not kidding. A black maid's uniform with a little white apron that looked as if came from an earlier, incredibly sexist (but nevertheless stylish) century. The girl in the uniform smiled at me and curtsied.

"I see you're awake. Good morning, Miss. What would you like for breakfast? The chef is at your disposal."

The chef is at your disposal?

That clinched it. If this was a hospital, my name was Fiddle Fuddle Cuckoo Shrimps III.

"Miss?" the girl smiled at me. She had a nice smile—a nice face altogether. Not really attractive, but homely and kind. "Your breakfast?"

"Um..." I cleared my throat. It felt dry. I really could use some breakfast. So 'the chef' was 'at my disposal', was he? I hoped that didn't mean they wanted me to dispose of him. I wasn't really up for a murder right now.

But this chef sounded like someone I could squeeze some breakfast out of. So, tentatively I asked: "Could I have some toast?"

"Just toast?" The girl looked taken aback.

Encouraged, I tried to smile at her. I stopped when my face hurt. "You mean I could have some toppings, too?"

"Of course, Miss! Anything you want. Caviar, pâté de foie gras..."

"How about marmalade?"

"Certainly, Miss. Which flavor?"

"Um... strawberry?"

"As you wish. Anything else?"

Becoming bolder, I uttered the deepest, dearest wish of my heart: "A cup of coffee?"

"Espresso? Cappuccino? Americano? Latte? Café au lait? Mocaccino? Caramel Macchiato?"

Geez! What kind of place was this?

"Err... just coffee will be fine thanks."

"I shall bring it directly, Miss."

She gave me another smile, curtsied, and was just about to leave the room when the door opened and a man stepped in. A tall man in a red riding coat with shiny, shoulder-length black hair and the face of an angel.