The Book of Hours Read Online Free Page A

could compare to the third-class wagon of a Malaysian train for discomfort. His backside still bore lumps from a two-day run to Kuala Lumpur. Brian made himself as comfortable as possible and gave in to the sense of defeat. Six hundred thousand pounds. He would be hard-pressed to come up with even six hundred dollars. No matter what promise he might have made to his wife, Castle Keep was lost almost before it was found.
    â€œMr. Blackstone?” The receptionist stood in the middle of the chamber and beamed at him. “Dr. Lyons will see you now.”
    Every eye in the room seemed to track his progress. In the sudden silence his voice seemed to echo. “Most of these people were here before me. I don’t mind waiting my turn.”
    â€œYou just go right on down the hall there.” The woman seemed hard put not to laugh out loud. “Dr. Lyons’s office is the second door on your left.”
    Brian had the distinct impression that several others in the waiting room shared the receptionist’s humor. As he started down the hallway, he heard an old man wheeze, “I’d give me good arm to be a fly on that wall.”
    The doctor’s office was surprisingly large, the doctor herself surprisingly small. It was hard to tell her height, as she did not rise from her seat. But the oversized desk and antique swivel chair left her looking like a dark-haired child playing in an adult’s seat. “Yes?”
    â€œDr. Lyons?”
    â€œThat’s right. Come sit down.”
    Brian did as he was told. “Are you American?”
    â€œFather. Mother’s British.” The accent was as clipped as the words, the tone utterly flat. The dark eyes were bright, the features slightly off-kilter. The nose tilted upward, the lips much too full for such a fine-boned face. Her head was cocked at a funny angle, and the short raven hair was pushed impatiently back behind her ears. “What seems to be the matter?”
    Her abrupt attitude brought back memories of all the bad doctors he had suffered through to get here. Which was why he fished in his pocket and said merely, “I need to get a refill for a prescription.”
    She accepted the vial, read the label, and demanded, “Where did you get this?”
    â€œSri Lanka.”
    â€œI’m afraid, Mr.—”
    â€œBlackstone.”
    â€œWe do not automatically accept diagnoses and prescriptions from other countries.” She set down the vial and cocked her head once more in his direction. “This is for a very strong antibiotic.”
    â€œThat’s because I was very ill. I had either food poisoning or dysentery, I’m not sure which, and neither were the doctors.”
    â€œI see.” She seemed neither impressed nor all that concerned. “What are your symptoms now?”
    â€œAbout what you’d expect.” He had met a couple of American doctors who had lost their license to practice in the United States and fled to places that were only too glad to have medical care, no matter how questionable their abilities. He had just never expected to find one in Britain. “Weak, shaky, still a little fever.”
    â€œAny nausea or abdominal pain?”
    â€œNot for the past couple of days.”
    She was out of her chair almost before he had spoken. “Remove your . . . Why are you dressed in layers?”
    â€œIt’s all I have with me.”
    She might have sniffed. “Take them off, please. I need to examine your abdomen. Come sit over here.”
    Reluctantly he followed her to the corner bench. She examined his eyes, pricked his finger for blood, and inserted a thermometer before returning to her desk and filling out several forms. She returned to check his temperature and might have sniffed at the result, he wasn’t sure. She inspected his tongue, listened to his chest, prodded his abdomen, and finally announced, “Other than signs of dehydration and weight loss, I’d