The others had placed Mab on a bath towel on the kitchen table. Alex presided over the impromptu operating table. His tools were a bottle of peroxide, a box of gauze, and a thread and needle.
“She’s going to be fine,” he told Evie after she’d locked the door. “So long as she doesn’t enthusiastically rip the stitches out as soon as I’m done. But you wouldn’t do that, would you, girl?”
Mab gamely attempted a tail wag. Her expression was humanly woeful.
He continued conversationally, “And I suppose you’ve had your rabies shots? Never mind.”
Her father leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his stomach.
“Dad, are you okay?”
“You didn’t have to come after me like that,” he said, his voice low.
Her tone was matter-of-fact: “Yes, I did.”
“She didn’t act alone, Mr. Walker,” Arthur said.
Her father closed his eyes. “I know. Thank you. Thank you all. Alex, let me get you a clean shirt. That one’s a little messed up.”
The front of Alex’s shirt was scarlet. The rest of them had escaped relatively unscathed, but he looked like he’d seen battle. “Thanks. That’d be nice.”
Frank started to turn, then stumbled, slumping against the wall.
Evie reached his side in a heartbeat. Arthur was there as well, lunging across the kitchen. Alex, needle in hand, could only watch.
He brushed them away. “It’s the stress catching up with me, that’s all.”
“Dad!” Recriminations were laden in the word. Tension edged her voice.
Not waiting for explanations, Arthur stepped in and pulled Frank’s arm over his shoulders. “Come along, friend.”
“Bed,” he said with a sigh.
“That’s right.”
Evie followed them, wondering why her father would accept help from a mythical stranger and not from her. Though she supposed you didn’t argue when King Arthur insisted on carrying you to bed.
As a final insult, her father indicated for Arthur to pause outside the bedroom door. “Evie, stay here.”
Arthur took him inside and closed the door.
Back to the wall, she slid to the floor, pressed her face to her knees, and covered her head with her hands.
Some long minutes later, the door opened and closed again. Arthur emerged, a white T-shirt in hand, which he put over the back of a chair near Alex.
Arthur then moved to sit on the floor beside her. “He took something for the pain. He’s resting now.”
She sniffed loudly and wiped her face, attempting to hide that she’d been crying. She looked away from him, not wanting him to see. Her voice caught, though, and betrayed her. “I try to help him, but there’s nothing I can do.”
“No,” he said. “There isn’t.”
He touched her shoulder, and she took in the invitation to lean against him while he held her, his chin resting on her head.
At least she wasn’t alone anymore. How bad could things be if Arthur of legend was fighting for her? He didn’t seem much like a legend just now. He was a solid, human presence, warm and protective. She rested in his arms, grateful for the moment to catch her breath.
A throat-clearing sounded nearby. Alex, looking sheepish.
“I was wondering if I could get help carrying Her Majesty to the sofa? The dog,” he explained, gesturing with a thumb over his shoulder when Arthur looked quizzically at him.