As another fit of coughing seized him, Dominic caught sight of June's face. Beneath her composed exterior, fear shone in her eyes—fear for him. It was that, more than his own suffering, that cut him to the quick. He had done this to her. In his selfishness, in his weakness for her, he had condemned her to watch him die.
A sharp knock at the door preceded the arrival of the physician—a portly, gray-haired man with spectacles perched precariously on his nose and a worn leather medical bag clutched in his hand. He entered with the confident stride of a man accustomed to being summoned at unreasonable hours, nodding briefly to June before turning his attention to Dominic.
"Dr. Forrest at your service, Your Grace," he said, setting his bag on the bedside table. "I understand you're experiencing some difficulty."
Dominic attempted to sit straighter, only to be seized by another coughing fit. The physician waited patiently for it to subside, his expression revealing nothing beyond professional interest.
"How long has this been troubling you?" he asked when Dominic could breathe again.
"It began several hours ago," Dominic replied, his voice rasping painfully. "Though there have been... other episodes in recent months."
The physician nodded, opening his bag to extract a small glass bottle. "And these other episodes—were they similar to this one?"
"No," Dominic admitted. "Different. Palpitations. Shortness of breath. Dizziness at times."
Dr. Forrest hummed noncommittally as he withdrew a stained wooden ear trumpet from his bag. "I'll need to listen to your chest, Your Grace. If you wouldn't mind sitting forward."
Dominic complied, wincing as the cold metal touched his heated skin. The physician moved the instrument methodically across his back and chest, his brow furrowed in concentration. June hovered nearby, her hands clasped tightly before her, her knuckles white with tension.
"Deep breath, if you please," Dr. Forrest instructed.
Dominic tried to obey, but the effort triggered another round of coughing that left him doubled over, gasping for air. The physician waited, then placed the trumpet against his chest once more.
"Your pulse, now," he said, taking Dominic's wrist between practiced fingers. He counted silently, eyes fixed on the pocket watch he held in his other hand.
"You mentioned palpitations," Dr. Forrest said as he released Dominic's wrist. "Describe them, if you would."
Dominic swallowed hard, aware of June listening intently. "My heart seems to... forget its rhythm. It races, then pauses, thenraces again. Sometimes I feel a pressure in my chest, as if someone were squeezing it from within."
"And do these episodes coincide with physical exertion? Emotional distress?"
"Sometimes," Dominic said. "Not always."
The physician nodded, reaching into his bag again to extract a small vial. He uncorked it and held it under Dominic's nose. "Breathe this, Your Grace."
The sharp scent of mint and something more astringent filled Dominic's nostrils, momentarily clearing his congestion. Dr. Forrest observed the effect, then repacked the vial.
"Open your mouth, please," he instructed, peering down Dominic's throat with the aid of a small hand mirror and a candle June held for him. "Hmm. As I suspected."
He straightened up, replacing his instruments in his bag with methodical precision. June stepped forward, unable to contain herself any longer.
"Well?" she demanded. "What is wrong with my husband?"
Dr. Forrest adjusted his spectacles. "It appears to be nothing more than a common cold, Your Grace," he pronounced. "The throat is inflamed, the chest congested. A few days of rest should see His Grace much improved."
Dominic stared at the physician in disbelief. A cold? Impossible. Not with the weight crushing his chest, the fever burning through his veins, the certain knowledge that his time was running short. "Are you certain it is only a cold?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
"Quite certain," Dr. Forrest replied, snapping his bag closed. "The symptoms are unmistakable. The congestion in your lungs, the inflammation of the throat, the fever—classic signs of a winter chill. Not uncommon as autumn gives way to colder weather."
"But the palpitations," Dominic pressed. "The pressure in my chest."
The physician considered him thoughtfully. "Those could be caused by any number of things, Your Grace. Anxiety. Too much rich food or strong drink. Insufficient rest." He paused, his expression softening slightly. "I understand your family has a history of heart ailments?"
Dominic nodded stiffly. "My father died of it. His father before him."
"Then it's natural you would be concerned," Dr. Forrest acknowledged. "But I find no indication of serious heart trouble at present. Your pulse is somewhat elevated, but that's to be expected with fever. The sounds in your chest are those of congestion, not of a failing heart."
Relief should have flooded through Dominic at these words. Instead, he felt oddly disappointed—as if having prepared himself for the worst, this reprieve was almost an anticlimax. Or perhaps it was simply that he didn't believe it.
