It was most awkward,Pippa decided, to stand outside the Archduke’s chamber door the very next morning, as if nothing at all had happened between them the day before. She had once again tried to persuade Frau Benedikt to let her clean the corridors instead, but Frau Benedikt had been adamant.
“You must do your duty as is required of you. If you come to me one more time with this request, I shall cancel your next free day.” With this, she’d shut down all argument, since Pippa very much wanted to take advantage of her next free day to leave the palace. She hadn’t left the palace in weeks, and she was feeling suffocated.
As for her daily duties, she would have to muddle through them as best as she could.
She held the pitcher with the hot water in one hand, and the towels in the other, and, drawing in a big breath, entered the dark room.
She could navigate herself around in the darkness slightly better than the previous day. And she also knewnow to avoid the creaking floorboard, to head straight for the dressing table and not to bump into the bed on the way.
Halfway through the room she paused, and listened. In the darkness she could see the bump in the bed, which meant he was there, lying on the bed. Sleeping.
Biting her lip, she crept forward, reached the washstand, poured the water carefully into the bowl.
She paused and listened again.
He was breathing regularly.
He was clearly asleep, and entirely unaware that she was there, right beside him.
Except—was it her imagination, or did his breathing appear somewhat laboured?
There! Now, a groan.
Pippa froze.
Unless he was having a nightmare, it did not sound normal.
Another groan.
Was he drunk, maybe? They said that the Tsar had hosted a soiree in his chambers, which had developed into full-fledged debauchery, the result of which her fellow maids had to clean up this morning. She assumed Klemens must have attended as well. Except Klemens did not drink. He never did; not even when he’d been a student and her father had offered a glass of champagne in celebration of his birthday. “I never touch alcohol,” he’d retorted. “Because I dislike the effect it has over my senses, and I prefer to stay in control of my actions at all times.” Both she and her father had lauded him for that.
It was therefore unlikely that he’d thrown his principles overboard and was drunk.
She hesitated, then tiptoed to the bedside and stood there, uncertain. She leaned forward, extending her hand to where she supposed the head was.
His forehead was burning beneath her fingertips.
Her fingers stumbled in the darkness to light the oil lamp on the nightstand.
In the pale glow of the light, she could see his face was as white as his pillow, and his lips cracked and pale. His eyes fluttered open.
“I’m having a lovely dream.” His voice was cracked and hoarse. “My little dove is here.” He wanted to say more, but then he started coughing.
“Oh dear. That doesn’t sound good.” She helped him sit up and steadied his shoulders as he was coughing. “You appear to have a fever. I’ll fetch the physician.”
“No. Stay.” He held her hand and reclined on his pillow, closing his eyes. “It’s just a cold. It’ll pass.”
“Let me fetch you a mustard plaster and a hot foot bath?—”
He shook his head. “I want none of that.”
Pippa picked up the eiderdown duvet that had slipped from the bed and covered him with it, pulling it up to his chin. “You must remain warm. I’ll go fetch some tea.”
He caught her hand and held her back. “Stay here while I sleep.”
“But...”
“It is an imperial order,” he mumbled as he closed his eyes.
