CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
Hamilton lay asleep in Polidori’s bed. The doctor pressed his hand to the officer’s sweat-beaded forehead, then pulled the sheets and blanket down to expose the torso to the cool night air breezing through the open windows. His face, chest, and arms were bruised with savage bites. Polidori had dabbed each with iodine, sutured and bandaged the deepest punctures. He had lost little blood, but his n***d flesh was flushed red with fever, his rust-colored body hair tending toward golden where it crept from his chest to eddy down his stomach.
“The fever should break by dawn, but I advise he rest as long as possible,” Polidori said.
Mrs. Hicks folded the discarded eiderdown and placed it on the trunk at the end of the bed. “Soup is simmering on the kitchen fire. I won’t b
