She walked in to see their guest lying in bed, his head on the pillow, his eyes closed. He made barely a lump beneath the quilts, yet his feet were perilously close to the footboard.
“You managed to bathe him?” She put the tray down on the bedside table.
“It did not take much effort or water since he weighs very little for a grown man. And he did not rouse during my ministrations.” Dal frowned. “He is clean, Miss Hecate, but so thin. And the spots…”
“Definitely typhus.” She began to make her restorative brew, stirring things into the hot water. “He saidMoira, Dal. Did you hear it? When he saw me?”
“I did, yes.”
“I wonder why? That was my mother’s name.” She shook her head. “He could well be from Ireland, I suppose, with that dark hair and those long lashes. Not to mention the blue eyes. And I recall reading news in the papers about a typhus epidemic over there. This hasn’t been a good year for food anywhere…and starvation walks hand in hand with disease.”
“What would an Irish infantryman be doing wandering in our forest, though?” The question was thoughtful, and Dal stared at the unconscious man as he gave voice to it. “His uniform is barely recognisable, what’s left of it, he’s nothing on him to identify him, and his wrists look like they may have been shackled at some point recently. But he is in such poor condition, it is hard to be certain of anything.”
“Let us hope he can tell us when he wakes.” She moved to his side and sat on the bed. “Can you lift him a little, so that I can get some of this down him? The sooner the better, I think.”
Between the two of them, they were able to get the man to drink three quarters of a cup of Hecate’s medicine, though it involved pouring the liquid down his throat rather than engaging his active participation.
“There, that should help,” she said, putting the teacup back on the tray.
As if in response, the man moaned, and a shiver shook his thin body.
“Damn,” swore Hecate softly. She touched his forehead. “The fever is still with him.” She glanced at Dal. “There are extra blankets in the cupboard. Would you bring me a couple, please? I need to keep him warm for a while.”
“Of course.” He found two thick woollen blankets and helped her spread them over and around their patient.
“I’ll stay. We can do nothing more for now, and if he wakes someone should be here.” She pulled a chair close to the bed.
“Very well. I will bring tea.” Dal nodded. “And perhaps a biscuit?”
Hecate chuckled. “I wouldn’t say no. Mrs. Trimmer is making some broth, too. If we can get some of that into him before nightfall, I shall be a great deal more confident.” She would not reveal her concerns, but this was clearly a very sick man. Typhus was debilitating and could be fatal. When compounded with starvation and lack of shelter…well, it was a miracle he’d survived as long as he had.
After Dal left, she sat down next to him, placed her hand on his forehead and closed her eyes.
“Attend me, sir. You are safe now. Warm and dry. You must rest, but not let go. Do you hear me? I shall not let you drift away from me…” Even as she spoke the words, she felt something unusual…a tremor passed from his skin to her palm and tingles sizzled upward, flooding her body with a strange warmth.
In that moment, she knew.
He wasthe one.
*~~*~~*
The arrival of the unconscious man at Doireann Vale initiated a new routine for its occupants.
The weather stayed miserable, keeping them indoors, as it did others throughout the country. The few newspapers that made it to Little Beechwood—and eventually to Hecate—spoke of troubles everywhere; failed crops, dwindling food supplies and the increase of illnesses amongst those most drastically affected. In addition to the re-entry of thousands of troops now no longer needed to defend the nation, famine was a real possibility and the Government was vainly trying to cope with the crisis as best it could.
Hecate sighed as she refolded the news sheets. They were well enough, but others would suffer and for her, it was a difficult reality to accept. However, her particular guest, the one who was at least no longer suffering the weather, had survived.
Each night, until around midnight, Hecate sat with him. The room was snug, her chair comfortable and often Bub joined her, purring his way into the perfect spot on her lap while she read.
If all was quiet and he slept on, she would leave for her own room and Dal, who always rose early, would be there to keep watch until Hecate rose again. She ate in the small parlour, and sometimes spent a little time with Mrs. Trimmer, who expressed concern about the new guest, but was soothed by the common sense and medical knowledge exhibited by the lady of the house.
Hecate did not mind spending hours at his side, since she would have been housebound anyway, so she moved many of her books into the room, along with her stock of medicines, made sure it was as snug as could be, and took up residence near the man who had now recovered his appearance at least. The spots were gone and his fever had abated. His skin was still pale, but no longer showed the unhealthy pallor of starvation.
His hair was almost black, with the occasion glimpse of blue when the light struck it just right. Long and thick, it glowed now that his body was starting to recover. His face was lean, his cheeks sharp; she had to wonder if his countenance was always this way, with strong lines well defined. The growing stubble of his beard and moustache blurred the outline of his chin, but when one put all his features together, he was decidedly well-favoured.
His conscious state, however, had yet to fully return to normal.
He would drink broth if it was held to his lips, and swallow bread if soaked first in the broth. Dal assisted in his personal needs, shooing Hecate from the room during those times. Apparently he was capable of relieving himself, something Hecate was grateful for, since she was making sure he drank nourishing soups and her special teas, both of which were helping his body repair itself.
