The first few nights had been difficult; he tossed and turned, fighting the fever, muttering and mumbling to himself, and occasionally crying out orders to troops who no longer fought at his side.
She could only assume that he’d been involved in the battle at Waterloo. When his cries turned to sobs of grief, unbearably sad sounds that tore at her heart, that assumption was confirmed. He’d fought, lost comrades, suffered a wound or two of his own, and survived. It was the last which seemed to bother him the most, since his most frequent whispers were questions to God about why he was still alive.
She ached for him, holding his hand, speaking softly and quietly to him, telling him he was safe, that he was still breathing for a reason. She insisted that his life was important; that all lives were important, but that his must have something about it that set it apart from other lives.
But her attempts at encouragement met with failure. He remained still, his eyes shut tight.
She took her seat again this night—a little more than a week since he’d arrived—and leaned over him to check on his condition.
She bit her lip and frowned. That bump on his head, even though it had gone down considerably, worried her.
It seemed there might be cause for concern since he barely moved, his breathing slow, his muscles lax. And Hecate stared, afraid, trying to feel the pulse in his wrist, so faint, so thready and irregular.
She wasnotgoing to lose him. Her mind darted through her options.
Releasing his hand, she turned to her small dispensary, and removed the jar of powdered sage. There were other ingredients as well, one brought back to England barely a decade ago by those who had fought against Napoleon in Egypt. She’d wondered at it, tried it, and found it had some remarkable qualities. Ones which she hoped might help her poor patient through this time.
She brewed a small pot, and poured two cups, one for her and one for him. Sliding her hand behind his neck, she lifted his head and urged him to sip…and sip again. He did, his eyes closed, his skin cool to the touch.
“One more, dear sir.” Hecate finished her own cup. “How I wish I knew your name and could speak to you directly. Perhaps then you might listen…” She touched his forehead, troubled at the icy feel. “I shall find you, sir. We are going to talk to each other. I shall demand it of you, so be ready.”
She slipped another pillow beneath his head, raising it a little. He murmured as she did so and aroused her curiosity. Surely he’d not minded being moved before. Gently she lifted him again and ran her hand delicately over the back of his head. He shifted when she touched the area that had exhibited the lump. Still tender, she guessed, but much reduced in size, thank goodness.
There was no other obvious reason for that injury…something had struck him hard, very hard to leave that kind of wound…it must have happened sometime during his wanderings in the forest.
She sighed and put the cups back on the table. “I hope this will work, poor man. You must be so tired being locked up inside your own mind, but if you won’t come out, then I must come in.”
Tucking her blanket around her knees, Hecate pulled out the few hairpins that secured her chignon. Now she could relax and rest her head against the back of the chair. Then she reached over and took the cold hand in hers, intertwining their fingers.
She closed her eyes and began the process of what she thought of as “drifting”. Doors opened inside her mind, admitting ideas, memories, suggestions, and feelings. She’d learned to control the flood long ago, but this time, she held the door wide open, seeking those same things—from another.
Waiting, her body relaxed and his hand grew warm in hers. She smiled as the notion of them sharing a heartbeat flashed across her mind.
Behind her eyelids, vague images and shapes formed then vanished, some familiar, others mere wisps of thoughts that did not linger.
Then, slowly, a fog settled, obscuring everything.
And his fingers tightened around hers.
