“Last night, he said he was tired and refused dinner, but he was that flushed, your ladyship, cheeks red as apples. This morning we could not wake him. Cook said I should run and tell you.”
How had Frederica ended up on her feet, with her hand over her mouth? “What do you mean? Is he…alive?” Her lips moved in silent prayer.
“He is breathing, but burning up with fever. Tossing and turning, like in a dream.”
Her throat was so tight she could barely get the words through. “Has the apothecary been called?”
“Yes, your ladyship, and we’re sponging him to bring down the fever.”
She swallowed hard. There was nothing she could do, and it would be totally improper for her to go to his bedside. But something was terribly, terribly wrong.
“I am coming,” she whispered, as if he could hear her. Then she spun on her heel and set out for the Dower House.
Frederica’s stomach churned as she held Roderick’s burning hand in her own, trying to pour her strength into him. His eyes had opened briefly, but he had not recognized her, nor even his own name. Dear God, how could he have become so ill so quickly?
It was like Elizabeth’s sickness after Cerridwen bonded her to the land of Pemberley. That same sudden onset, coming out of nowhere. Elizabeth had barely survived.
Could it be? She turned her gaze to the maid who was wringing out towels. “Send a runner to the main house. I need Chandrika, Mrs. Darcy’s maid, here without delay.” Chandrika had recognized what was happening with Elizabeth. Perhaps she would know what to do.
“Right away, your ladyship.” The maid hurried out, leaving Frederica alone with Roderick and her regrets.
Why had she been so unkind to him, simply because he had made it clear he did not want her? Though he had seemed to enjoy her kisses quite well at first, before pushing her away and saying those fateful words that still echoed in her head. She could at least have had him as a friend for a little longer, had her vanity not been so terribly piqued. And her temper.
And now he lay here, unable to object to her holding his hand. She pressed her forehead to the back of it, wishing fiercely that the world could be somehow different, that he could have loved her. That he could survive this terrible fever. Somehow. Anyhow.
Because he was the only man who had ever taken her seriously, every impulsive word that poured out of her mouth. The only man who had understood her desire to be heard, to be liked despite her dratted truth-casting. The only man who had ever treated her as a person rather than the Earl of Matlock’s Talented daughter. He had seen her as a person in her own right.
How she had loved that long journey from Pemberley to London with him and Granny, she, who usually despised being trapped in the carriage with nothing to busy her restless mind. How they had talked for hours about everything under the sun – well, everything except that mysterious Welsh village of theirs. When she finally had realized that he enjoyed her company, after thinking he despised everything about her, her Englishness, her aristocratic blood, her connection to the King’s Mage. And then she jumped to thinking that perhaps he more than liked her, and how very wrong she had been. Oh, why could she never settle for what she had? Why did she always want more?
Tears leaked down her cheek, and she swiped them away fiercely. She never cried. Ever. Ever. Ever.
Chandrika confirmed that it indeed looked like nagapani, or dragon fever. “Where is the dragon he worked with? Perhaps he would know.”
Silently Frederica reached out for Quickthorn.
Oak and ash, what is wrong with you?the dragon sent. Frederica’s distress must be leaking through their bond.
Frederica pushed it all through wordlessly, the sight of Roderick before her, her misery and guilt, and the question of dragon fever.
It cannot be dragon fever if all they did was the lesser bond. There is no blood mixing for that. Unless…There was an abrupt shift in Quickthorn’s aura, switching from concern to outright fury.That thrice-cursed fool! That idiot! How dare he?
Now Frederica was even more frightened.What is it?
I will find that ridiculous excuse for a dragon and bring him there if I have to drag him.Quickthorn ended the connection.
Leaving Frederica even more confused. Was she talking about Rowan? Rowan the kind, gentle, amiable dragon? What had he done to Roderick?And more importantly – much, much more importantly – would he recover?
It was an eternity later – half an hour by the ridiculously slow mantle clock – before Quickthorn announced her arrival with an annoyed rap on the diamond-paned window.
Finally! Frederica unlatched the window and pushed it open, but it was not large enough for Quickthorn’s peregrine falcon form to fit through.
With a squawk of outrage, Quickthorn transformed into a starling just long enough to get through, followed by another bird. Rowan, perhaps?
The peregrine falcon perched on the railing of the bed. “Look what you have done,” Quickthron snapped, her voice tinged with the odd squeak that went with her bird form.
Rowan flew to the floor and blurred for a long moment into his human shape.
Frederica winced. By the Dark Nest standards, Rowan was considered particularly gifted at taking human form, but if that was true, dragons were truly bad at it. Except Rana Akshaya, apparently, and Napoleon, but perhaps dragons did things differently outside of Britain. Looking at the odd angles of Rowan’s joints was painful, and as for his face – well, better simply not to look at it at all. It reminded her of a porcelain doll.
