“You’re the one who’s dy—ill. I should be asking you how you’re feeling,” I said through numb lips.
He seized on my misstep. “Dying? That sounds quite serious.”
I waved this off dismissively, and for a moment I was impressed by my ability to seem nonchalant, when my mind screamed with terror. His face had lost all color; his skin was clammy, beads of sweat lining his brow.
“Tell me the truth,” he said gently.
“I wouldn’t lie to you about this,” I whispered. “There was considerable blood loss, and infection has set in. You have a fever, and it might get worse before it gets better. Surviving tonight is critical. The physician is coming back tomorrow.”
My fingers itched to smooth the matted hair off his forehead. I fought the impulse with everything in me. A part of me wanted to hold on to my anger because I was terrified of feeling anything else for him. My rage didn’t scare me as much as my love for him did. But looking at him now, I realized that I was on the brink of losing him. Nothing else mattered except making sure he lived.
“He tried to draw some of my blood,” he said. “I wouldn’t let him.”
It was a tried tactic to dispel any sickened blood from the body, and it made me nauseous to think about. I started to protest, but Whit had closed his eyes, grimacing. The pain he must have been in.
“Will you have something to drink?”
He opened his eyes, which were bloodshot and exhausted and red rimmed. I made the decision for him and gave him a small cup of tepid water. He managed a few sips before dropping his head back onto the pillow with a groan. A moment later, he drifted to sleep. I pulled a chair closer to the bed and reached for his hand. It burned to the touch. For the next hour, I alternated between holding on to him and attempting to stave off the worst of his fever with cold compresses. He shifted, uncomfortable, sweating. The bedding became wrapped around his waist and legs, and I gave up straightening the sheet.
Horror gripped me as I listened to his strained breathing, shallow breaths that cost him. Every single one of them sounded like a pained gasp. I forced him to take a few sips of water through his cracked and dry lips at regular intervals. My palms turned wrinkly from the constant wringing of the damp cloth. Every time I applied it across his forehead, his chest, tension seeped out of him, and the tight lines fanning from the corners of his eyes smoothed away.
Time passed, but I was only aware of it because the staff would routinely knock on the door with fresh cloths, tea, and simple meals for me. My bones ached from sitting up for so long without food or sleep. I would have suffered much worse to never let go of his hand. His delirium persisted through the rest of the day and long into the night. Several times, he called my name. Lack of sleep made my head spin, but I answered every single time, my voice hoarse from my reassurances.
And then, shortly before the dawn of a new day, Whit’s eyes drifted open. He stared at me, squinting.
“I haven’t left you,” I whispered.
He nodded, relief softening the tight press of his mouth.
“You’re being ridiculous,” I said. “Get rid of this fever immediately and become well.”
Whit’s dry lips stretched into a smile, as I knew they would. “Where are your manners, Inez? Say please.”
“Please.”
He turned his head toward mine. “You have bruises around your throat, and there are scratches on your cheeks.”
“Isadora fought like a cat,” I said.
“This is why I hate them.” Whit didn’t lose his faint but determined smile, and my heart flipped at the sight of it. “Dogs are wonderful, and humans don’t deserve them.”
“Stop talking and rest,” I said sternly.
“Too much to say,” Whit whispered. “I could murder the bastard.”
“Mr. Sterling?” I guessed.
“He just had to take all of the ink bottles, didn’t he?”
I blinked at him. Ink bottles? What ink—Oh!My cheeks burned. I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten. I looked around for the lone bottle I’d managed to shrink before Sterling had arrived. It was on the windowsill.
He followed my line of sight. “You’ve had the ink this whole time?” Whit asked, eyes wild. “All while that doctor pulled abulletout of my stomach? Tried todrainme of my blood? Olivera, do you know that I have afever? You must really hate me.”
The words ripped out of me. “No, I don’t.”
They rang between us, and through the haze of his fever, he looked at me in surprise.
“I forgot all about it,” I said sheepishly, trying to move past the sudden awkward tension.
