"I've had measles too. I'll stay with the child," Ellen told Edmund's mother.
“I'll have a tray of tea brought up to you." She laid a hand on Ellen's arm. "It was right for you to come. Sad, of course, given the circumstances. But I can only be grateful that you are here."
The child was still burning with fever. Ellen wrung out the washcloth, wiped his face, and placed it on his forehead. Noni thrashed about and ripped the cloth off, flinging it to the ground.
Ellen stared at the small, writhing body, and her eyes glazed over. Measles killed children.
It had killed Emma.
Her younger sister had died of measles. It had been so long ago, but Ellen remembered it as if it had been yesterday. They'd shared a bed and had the measles together. But while she had only had a mild case, Emma had burned up with fever. By the seventh day, she had recovered, and Emma was dead.
The pain, the gnawing hole, the emptiness of losing her sister, had remained in her heart ever since.
She looked down at Noni, and a tear ran down her cheek.
She would not let this little one die. She would fight for him with everything she had.
She clasped the child's small hand and rested her head on her arm.
She was tired. So tired.
A sharp,sweet scent entered her nose. Pungent, but not unpleasant. It wasn't exactly mint, more like rosemary, but sharper and more pungent. Ellen lifted her head, sniffing. She didn't recognise the scent, but it was soothing, clearing her nostrils and her head.
Noni was still asleep; he had stopped thrashing around and was sleeping with his mouth half open.
A movement caught her attention.
Was she dreaming? She dreamed that an exotic prince stood at the window in a magnificent, oriental-looking banyan, scarlet and gold. His hair curled in his nape and his profile was classically handsome.
Ellen blinked dreamily at him.
He was standing at the table by the window, lifting a vial. On the table was some sort of device, a small glass lamp with a bowl over a candle, which seemed to be the source of the smell.
Edmund. Ellen snapped awake. What was he doing in Noni's room?
"What is that?” Her voice was thick with sleep. She cleared her throat.
"This is the oil from the leaves of a tree that grows in New South Wales. It is said to have healing properties." He dropped three drops of the oil into a bowl of water, dipped a cloth in it and wrung it out. Then he walked over to the child and placed it on his feverish forehead.
Ellen sniffed. "It smells nice."
"I distilled it myself. Apparently, it works against fever." He pulled out a small pouch, opened it, pulled out a leaf, and handed it to her.
It was narrow and silvery, unlike any leaf she'd ever seen before. The scent emanated from it.
"You are a connoisseur of scents," Ellen said suddenly, dazed. "I don't know why I didn't notice it before. But you have an excellent nose, and you know how to distil oils. Oh!" Her eyes widened. "I remember how the ladies used to rave about a certain perfume. Adonis."
He pulled a chair up to the bed and sat down, staring at the child. "Yes."
"You created it."
"Yes." A slight smile played on his lips.
"But that means you are a respected perfumer! You're famous!"
He shrugged. "Adonis is famous. I prefer to remain anonymous, and that people do not know who its creator is."
"But why?"
