Misery

grieving lord, Shinebone had returned. He had looked tired, not very well himself; nor was this surprising in a man who claimed to have shaken hands with Wellington — the Iron Duke himself — when he (Shinebone, not Wellington) had been a boy. Geoffrey thought the Wellington story was probably an exaggeration, but Old Shinny, as he and Tan had called him as boys, had see, Geoffrey through all his childhood illnesses, and Shinny had seemed a very old man to him, even then. Always granting the eye of childhood, which tends to see anyone over the age of twenty-five as elderly, he thought Shinny must be a11 of seventy-five now.
He was old… he’d had a hectic, terrible last twenty-four hours… and might not an old, tired marl have made a mistake?
A terrible, unspeakable mistake?
It was this thought more than any other which had seat him out on this cold and windy night, under a moon which stuttered uncertainly between the clouds.
Could he have made such a mistake? Part of him, a craven, cowardly part which would rather risk losing Misery forever than look upon the inevitable results of such a mistake, denied it. But when Shinny came in…
Geoffrey had been sitting by Ian, who was remembering in a broken, scarcely coherent way how he and Ian had rescued Misery from the palace dungeons of the mad French viscount Leroux, how they had escaped in a wagonload of hay, and how Misery distracted one of the viscounts guards at a critics moment by slipping one gorgeously unclad leg out of the hay and waving it delicately. Geoffrey had been chiming in his own memories of the adventure, wholly in the grip of his grief by then, and he cursed that grief how, because to him (and to Ian as well, he supposed), Shinny had barely been there.
Hadn’t Shinny seemed strangely distant, strangely preoccupied? Was it only weariless, or had it been something else… something suspicion…?
No, surely not, his mind protested uneasily. The pony-trap was flying up Calthorpe Hill. The manor house itself was dark, but — ah, good! — there was still a single light on in Mrs. Ramage’s cottage.
“Hup, Mary!” he cried, and cracked the whip, wincing. Not much further, girl, and you can rest a bit!” Surely, surely not what you’re thinking!!
But Shinny’s examination of Geoffrey’s broken ribs and sprained shoulder had seemed purely perfunctory, and he had spoken barely a word to Ian, in spite of the man’s deep grief and frequent incoherent cries. No — after a visit which now seemed no longer than the most minimal sort of social convention would demand, Shinny had asked quietly: “Is she -?”
“Yes, in the parlor,” Ian had managed. “My poor darling lies in the parlor. Kiss her for me, Shinny, and tell her I’ll be with her soon!” Ian then had burst into tears again, and after muttering some half-heard word of condolence, Shinny had passed into the parlor. It now seemed to Geoffrey that the old sawbones had been in there a rather long time… or perhaps that was only faulty recollection. But when he came out he had looked almost cheerful, and there was nothing faulty about this recollection, Geoffrey felt sure — that expression was too out of place in that room of grief and tears, a room where Mrs. Ramage had already hung the black funerary curtains.
Geoffrey had followed the old doctor but and spoke hesitantly to him in the kitchen. He hoped, he said, that the doctor would prescribe a sleeping powder for Ian, who really did seem quite ill.
Shinny had seemed completely distracted, however. “It’s not a bit like Miss Evelyn-Hyde,” he said. “I have satisfied myself of that.” And he had returned to his caleche without so much as a response to Geoffrey’s question. Geoffrey went back inside, already forgetting the doctor’s odd remark, already chalking Shinny’s equally odd behavior off to age, weariless, and his own sort of grief. His thoughts had turned to Ian again, and he determined that, with no sleeping powder forthcoming, he would simply have to pour whiskey down Ian’s throat until the poor fellow passed out.
Forgetting… dismissing.
Until now.
It’s not a bit like Miss Evelyn-Hyde. I have satisfied myself of that.
Of what?
Geoffrey did not know, but he intended to find out, no matter what the cost to his sanity might be — and he recognized that the cost might be high.

Mrs. Ramage was still up when Geoffrey began to hammer on the cottage door, although it was already two hours past her normal bedtime. Since Misery had passed away, Mrs. Ramage found herself putting her bedtime further and further back. If she could got put an end to her restless tossing and turning, she could at least postpone the moment at which she began it.
Although she was the