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She looks so small. That’s the only thing Pyro can think about in this moment that doesn’t make him unbearably sad or fill him with blinding rage. It’s that, here, on the white, sterile bed of the servants’ sickroom, Ivory looks very, very small.
She’s sitting up, which is good, and watching him as carefully as he’s been watching her. Over the phone, the doctor had said to not let her sleep. She’s likely concussed; if Pyro learned anything from the times he’d fallen off his horse while hunting with Zam, it was that one should never let a concussed person sleep immediately after getting that concussion. He’d never had much stomach for the sport, anyway.
The important thing is that Ivory is awake. She is awake, alert, and sitting up, which means that she is alive. She is no longer covered in blood and had allowed Pyro to help her re-bandage her wounds once she was out of the bath. The scrapes on her side and forehead are almost entirely superficial, thank God, though with time, the bruising has started to make itself known. Pyro had Ross fetch a bag of ice from the icebox; she’s holding it in her free hand, wrapped in a towel, over what is shaping up to be a wretched black eye. Her other hand, sitting on the bed, is occupied by Pyro’s.
He’ll let go when the doctor arrives, of course, and the sickroom door is open enough for Pyro to be seen; he wouldn’t want to cause whispers of impropriety along with whatever rumor mill is bound to begin its work in the wake of all this. He knows the detective has been spreading lies about Ivory among the staff. God only knows what they’ll say once they hear she’s been attacked by the man. If Ivory notices how his jaw tightens, she doesn’t comment on it.
They don’t speak. Ivory watches him out of the corner of her eye, and Pyro watches her back just as quietly. They don’t make eye contact. They don’t acknowledge the closeness, nor how Sir Zombie would have a heart attack at the thought of his eldest son willingly consorting so closely with the help. Pyro’s thumb brushes over Ivory’s knuckle. She silently squeezes his hand. He silently squeezes hers back.
He was able to get to her before anything else could happen. That’s what’s important. He was able to get to her, and he was able to help her, and she didn’t wind up dead at the foot of the stairs. Pyro turns away before Ivory can see him get choked up. Of course the phrasing had to misty-eyed. Appropriate, he thinks miserably.
When she’s well enough, he’ll dote on her. Make sure she’s fine. Make sure she’s not being pushed too hard. She’ll probably argue against it, insist she’s supposed to be helping him, but, then again, so did Mysty. They’re similar, in that way.
The doctor’s car parks in the drive, and Pyro stands to meet him at the front door.