“Yes,” I said. “They’ll keep your temperature down.”
I went back into the kitchen to retrieve the soup and tea. The stove was small but had three burners. A small pot of pastina sat on the furthest one—Serafina claimed it was a cure all.
“I s-s-smell.” He paused and took a stuffy breather. He was getting frustrated with his teeth clattering. “I smell l-l-like a fucking p-p-pickle.”
“Better to smell like a pickle than burn up.”
I don’t think he even had the energy to narrow his eyes at me. He squinted and then went slack.
Placing the mugs on the table, I took him the tea first. He sniffed at it and scrunched up his nose.
“No,” he said.
I tried the chicken broth next.
“Smells good, but no.”
“You have to drink something!”
“Whiskey.” He went to reach for the bottle and I snatched it from him.
“What do you think this is?” I placed it back on the table. “The eighteenth century?”
“I wish. Then I could die in peace. Just me and the whiskey.”
“You’re not dying!”
He made a noise in his throat that seemed to oppose that statement. I went back into the kitchen and scooped out some pastina. They were soft and light and little, and though I worried about his stomach, I was starting to worry more about his lack of thirst.
He spotted me coming with the pasta and shook his head.
“Don’t even think about it,” he snapped. “Jesus. They got to you too. Pasta doesn’t cure everything.”
“Okay.” I set down the bowl with deliberate care. If not, I would’ve smashed it. Besides,Iwanted the pasta. “What do youwant, then?” I wished I had popsicles to give him, something cold I could mash up, but there was nothing like that here. We had miles and miles of snow, but no popsicles. The irony.
“You, Scarlett.” He sighed. “I want you.”
“All right,” I whispered. “How about some ice water and me? Just a sip. For now.”
“I can do that,” he said, voice husky. “Deal.”
I had learned that the faster I took off my clothes, the quicker I could get the next set back on. By the time the wool union suit was on me, I had only been pierced with a few sharp needles of cold. The wool socks on my feet made me feel toasty. I kept them close to the fire.
Before getting into bed, I made him a glass of water with ice pieces and stuck a spoon and straw in it. He let me feed him some ice, before he took one sip of water.
“I’ll give you more in a couple of minutes,” I said, putting the cup next to the bed. “That way you stay hydrated. And another dose of medicine.”
“Yeah,” he said, not sounding like he cared at all. “Now get in the bed.”
He made a noise of contentment as I slid in beside him and he rested his head on my stomach, his arms wrapped around my waist.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
“For?”
“For not making the bed roll when you got in.”
Laughing softly, I bent down and kissed his head. He was burning up, even with the medicine Uncle Tito instructed me to give him. He was close to another dose. But I almost expected a blister to form on my lips from the singe of his skin.
