Freddy almost hit her knees with relief, her body becoming a stone she could not move or lift or even understand. The only thing that made any sense was the bell of three words ringing in her heard—Grant is alive, Grant is alive, Grant is alive.
The corner of Max’s lips quirked up. “The crowd loved it. The beast saves the prince.”
“The prince,” Grant grumbled, “can walk out of here on his own two legs.”
“One of them anyway,” Max said. “Oh, Freddy. Girls. What are you doing here?”
Feeling thrummed back through her body, washing her mind clean for clear thoughts, for action, and if Freddy had thought the backstage quiet before, now she knew that to be a lie. Before, there had been the swoosh of skirts and padding of feet, the hum and whir of panicked action. Now, steps stopped and conversation screeched to a halt, skirts swung around idle legs. Every gaze swung toward her as if she were the finale act in a star-studded show.
“Damn me. Freddy.” Grant leapt out of Max’s arms, landed on one foot with a hiss and a cringe. “What the he”—his eyes swung wide to Bridget and Izzy—“what are you—all of you—doing here?”
Tears welled, at a surplus she did not want but could not help. She had more tears than words. But she had actions, too.
She swept toward him, her hands fluttering at his temples, his jaw, his dusty cravat, and his chest. She dropped to her knees to inspect the limb he held fragile as a curve of thin glass above the ground. She reached for it, barely touched it, and snapped her hands back to her belly.
Caged in a riding boot, she saw nothing.
She traced the top rim of his Wellington. “We must remove the boot.” She stood and swept under his arm, letting it drape heavy across her shoulders, and wrapped her own arm around his waist. She inspected her daughters’ faces for fear. And found none. Curiosity, yes. A bit of worry.
But then Grant waggled his fingers at them over Freddy’s head, and their sunny smiles banished all clouds.
“Good evening, darlings,” Grant said. “My apologies for providing such a poor performance. Perhaps a backstage tour will make up for the insult.”
They giggled, and Freddy’s heart knew true lightness, true relief, a love as light as a feather and deep as the earth.
“Nora,” she said, “Max? Will you please care for Izzy and Bridget while I see to Mr. Webster?”
The man with the whiskers appeared at Freddy’s side. “I’ll take the little sprites to my office. I’ve got sweets there.”
The girls did not hesitate to follow, and Freddy heard the whiskered man declare before they disappeared behind his office door, “You must call me Grandpapa Garrison.”
Grant chuckled, pulling Freddy tighter against his side. “He’s in love with them already.”
“Quiet, you. Is someone sending for the doctor?” Freddy pushed open the door to his dressing room, closed it behind them, and helped him sit on the small settee.
“We passed him in the hallway.”
“Oh!” She turned for the door. “I should let him in.”
“Not yet, Freddy darling. Just you for a bit. Please.”
She hesitated, torn. “For a moment.” She wanted him to herself. She knelt before him. “Do you have scissors? A knife so I can cut the boot away?”
He braced his hands on the settee behind him and stuck his foot out. “Just pull.”
She arched a brow at him.
“I’m fine. Just pull.”
She pulled.
He screamed, grit his teeth, and sucked in air with a low growl. Heavy pants tore from between his lips and sweat broke out on his brow. His head hung low, and his shoulders heaved. “There’s … a knife … in the drawer. Over there.” A terse nod toward the dressing table and mirror above it.
She found the blade and returned, kneeling once more and working it so very carefully down the leather. As she stroked a divide in the boot from knee to ankle, she gathered her thoughts and put them into marching order.
“Freddy.” His voice less fiery with pain, his fingers on her temple, stroking down the curve of her face. “You accepted my invitation and came. And you brought the girls. Does—”
“No, Grant. Let me speak first.” She leaned into his touch.
