“No more speaking for now,” she said. “You need to rest. And your hands are cold. I’ll build up the fire.” She turned away, uncertain whether her legs would hold her as she took that first step. But she managed the few paces and then knelt before the fire, where she added another log and shifted the coals.Returning to his side, she pulled the coverlet up to his neck and laid another blanket on top. His eyes were closed and his breathing labored.
“Fetch Graham,” he whispered.
Amelia went to the door, pausing to look back at him in case it was the last time.
She steeled herself. It would not be. Hellfire would not pry her from this room until she was certain her brother would not die. They came into this life together, and he would not leave it without her.
Amelia opened the door to call for a footman to find Mr. Blakewood, but he was already there, hands braced on the jamb as if he’d been holding himself back from entering. He hadn’t moved since she’d opened the door, almost as if he weren’t aware she stood there. His eyes were closed, his brow furrowed. His coat was gone, and his waistcoat and cravat undone. She’d never seen him so disheveled. It was the most vulnerable and the most human he’d ever seemed.
“He’s asking for you,” she said quietly.
His eyes opened, their pale gray-green bright with unshed tears. Stunned, Amelia couldn’t move.
“Lia . . .”
“Don’t. Please.”
He’d never called her that before, only Sam did. There had always been a wall between them, a barrier of polite—and sometimes impolite—indifference. And she wanted nothing about their relationship to change—not because of this. She certainly didn’t want any advice. He was Sam’s friend, not hers. He’d made that clear years ago when he had rebuffed her offer of friendship. She didn’t need his comfort now for something that she’d already determined wasn’t going to happen. If she had to be the one to believe enough for all of them that Sam would be fine, so be it.
Amelia stepped aside, and he lumbered past her. He moved slower, heavier than usual, like his fears pressed down on him and he struggled to carry it. She almost reached for him—to do what, she didn’t know. Pat him on the back? Comforthim? That was not the relationship they had.
Amelia took a breath and poured herself a glass of water. In Sam’s dressing room, she saw a shadow move.
“Petrov?”
“Aye, miss.”
Amelia came forward, pausing at the doorway, and the valet sat on a stool with his head in his hands.
“He’ll be well again.”
Petrov looked up at her. Even in the dark, she could see his grief. Petrov was a Russian immigrant who had been with them in one capacity or another for as long as she could remember. He was older than she and Sam were, but not old enough to be their parent. Still, he was almost family anyway. Someone who provided stability by just being there for most of their life, like much of the household.
Her stomach dropped when she saw the streaks of tears running down his cheeks. She didn’t know men could cry so. The sight of Petrov shook her, and her courage wavered. What was she going to do? She couldn’t be strong for everyone, could she? She’d never been this alone, but right now, with Sam fading and the house stricken with grief, she already felt the weight of everyone’s worries settling on her shoulders. She didn’t know how to withstand it.
Amelia peeked over her shoulder at Mr. Blakewood and her brother. Blakewood bent over him, as if listening for breath. Amelia dug her nails into the door jamb, a whimper escaping. But then she saw Sam’s chest rise, and Blakewood nodded.
Her brother’s lips moved. He spoke very slowly, and Blakewood replied.
His last wishes? Amelia held a fist to her stomach, digging into the hollowness as if she could punch through it. This couldn’t be happening. They were only two and twenty.
She stepped forward hesitantly. A hand grabbed her elbow.
“Miss,” Petrov whispered.
“What is it? My brother needs me.”
“What will happen to us?”
“Nothing is going to change,” Amelia assured him. “But we have to be strong. We have to make him better, Petrov. We all need him, and he needs us.”
Petrov nodded, but his eyes held sorrow.
Amelia turned away. She wasn’t going to give up. She strode across her brother’s room and went to his side. “You should drink something.” Surely that would help, wouldn’t it? A body needed water. She reached for the glass and pitcher that stood on the table near his bed.
“Lady Amelia,” Blakewood said sternly. “Dr. Bradley advised we give him nothing.”
Amelia stared him down.
