Chapter Twenty-Three
Perry touched his forehead and found his skin tacky with dried blood. How the devil had that happened? And then he remembered: Saintbridge’s first shot striking the chimney and spraying chips of brick. “It’s nothing.”
“There’s blood all over your face!”
He turned to peer in the little mirror propped up on his washstand and discovered that she wasn’t exaggerating. He had a cut on his forehead, but also one at his temple. He stared at that second cut blankly—and remembered Saintbridge hitting him with the wax jack. Neither cut was large, but they’d both bled profusely. Rivulets of dried blood tracked over his brow, his cheeks, even his chin. How had he not noticed?
Because he’d had more important things to concentrate on—namely, running across London’s rooftops witho
