“At this point, nothing can possibly hurt,” he allowed, his voice as rough as gravel.
I drew the bath as hot as the king could stand, adding the wilted geranium stalks. They sank into the steaming water, turning it slick and verdant. Next came a sprinkling of witch hazel and comfrey.
“Please take off your robe,” I requested.
Without shame, the king dropped it to the floor, showing the full extent of damage. Heavy strips of Brilliance peeled from hisbody, taking thick ribbons of flesh with them, and I fought the urge to gag. This sickness was flaying him alive.
I put on my gloves and offered my hand to help him into the steaming tub.
The king let out a sharp curse as the water washed over him, breaking away more of the buildup, more of his skin. Everything beneath the hardened sludge was wrinkled and sodden, corroding into pale curds. His flesh smelled dank, like milk gone sour.
Marnaigne looked up at me, mournful and silently crying out for an end to his suffering, but I busied myself with a washrag, gently massaging away the last of the sludge so that my tinctures could soak in.
“I’ve made a paste as well,” I said, turning to my cart of supplies as if I were simply showing him my work and not needing a moment’s respite from his pained stare. “Once we’re done with the bath, I’ll get you covered in that and let you rest. Rest will help. The paste will help.”
The king shook his head. “There are things I need to do. Before…” He took a laboring breath. “Before the end. If I can’t…if I can’t see my children, I need to write to them. There are things they need to know. So many, many things.” He blinked at me, and his eyes were so round. “Will you write for me? I can’t hold anything.”
“Of course I will. Oh!” I turned back toward him, happy I could offer at least one thing I knew was sure to make him happy. “I’ve a letter for you, from Euphemia. She was outside your rooms earlier.” I reached in to grab it from my pocket before I realized I was still wearing the gloves. “I’ll read it to you after the bath.”
The corners of his mouth rose, and I supposed he was smiling,but his lips split with half a dozen deep cracks and blood streamed from his chin to the bathwater. “Yes, she’d tucked herself beside the door and was singing me a song she’d learned. She has the sweetest little voice, my Phemie. A songbird, like her mother.” He let out a shaky breath and I could hear the Brilliance rattling in his lungs. “I’m never going to see her again, am I?”
“Oh no, Your Majesty. You will. These wraps are going to do wonders, you’ll see, and then we’ll—”
I never got to finish because a flurry of shivers spread across the king, starting at his shoulder blades, then racing outward as his arms and legs jumped. He thrashed like a marionette on uneven strings. A froth spilled from his mouth and his eyes wept black tears, but through it all, Marnaigne didn’t make a sound. It was the eeriest thing I’d ever borne witness to.
There was a great shudder, a collective spasm of every muscle within him contracting in one horrible united motion. Then he crashed back into the bath, spilling water across the floor, and lay completely still.
“Your Majesty?” I dared to whisper.
It was so quiet, as if the very air around us were waiting with bated breath.
“René?”
Had he—
Was he—
Dead?
In a flash, I was kneeling beside the tub, soaking my skirts in a foul mixture of geranium parts, bloodied bathwater, and blackened Brilliance. I pressed my fingers to the king’s neck, searching for a pulse. I couldn’t feel anything at first, the Brilliance was too thick, so I peeled back sections of it, horrified when he didn’t move, didn’tstir, becausethere was so much skin and muscle ripping off of him and why wasn’t he moving?But then…
It was there. Faint and thready, but there all the same.
I watched the shallow rise and fall of his chest with a careful eye, feeling a wave of relief crash over me.
Marnaigne was alive.
Just barely.
I sat back on my heels, wondering what I ought to do next, when I heard the crunch of paper in my skirt pocket.
Euphemia.
I thought of what the king had been saying just before the seizure had come over him, how Euphemia had been at the door that morning, to sing him a song. He couldn’t watch her, she couldn’t see him, but still she wanted to sing; she wanted one part of her, however small, however tenuous, with him.
I couldn’t imagine a love like that, so pure and earnest and insistent on existing in a world where things that were pure and earnest were so often crushed. I wondered what it would be like to feel such a love so wholeheartedly. Had I ever cared for anyone with even a fraction of Euphemia’s devotion?
I wanted to believe I had with Kieron, but when Merrick had laid out the consequences of letting him live, I’d destroyed him.
