Else ladled broth into a bowl, and she set the bowl, a teacup, and the teapot on the tray. With care, she carried it up to the garret.
A wet, barking cough proved Hemming still lived, and Else sighed in relief.
The door stood ajar. “Hemming? It’s Else. I brought a tray from Fru Riber.”
“Else?” His voice sounded weak. “Come—come in.”
She nudged the door open with her hip. The room itself was large, but the slanted roof left little usable space for a man of Hemming’s height. And the room stank of body odor, stale air, and illness.
A bed ran along the side wall with the head toward the peak of the roof.
Hemming was pushing himself up to sitting. He wore pale blue pajamas, soaked through along the breastbone, and red spots flared on gray cheeks.
“Let me help.” She set the tray on a trunk by his bed, shoving aside a book, and she arranged two pillows against the wall.
He sank against them and raised bleary eyes to her.
“How are you feeling?” She pressed her hand to his forehead—hot and damp. “Oh dear, you have a fever. Have you taken anything?”
Hemming gestured to bottles of aspirin and cough syrup on the trunk. “This morning—I think.”
“Let’s get you some more.” Else poured a cup of tea, shook out two aspirin tablets, and handed them to Hemming.
He took them slowly, every movement boggy.
Else poured cough syrup into his soupspoon. “We should call the doctor. You might have pneumonia.”
“Nej. I’m better—than yesterday.” When Else held out the spoon, he opened his mouth like a child—a child with a beard.
Hemming swallowed the dose, chased it down with tea, and let out a sigh. “So thirsty.”
“Drink that up. There’s more. And Fru Riber made beef broth.”
He set the teacup on the trunk and reached for the bowl.
“Can you?” Else nudged the bowl closer to him. “Do you need help?”
“I can do it. Thanks.” He cradled the bowl in his massive hand and took a spoonful.
“Would you like fresh air? It’s a nice day outside.” Other than rioters beating each other up. She suppressed a shudder. No need to worry an ill man.
Hemming gave a slow, heavy blink. “Yes. It must ... smell bad.”
Else threw open the windows in the slanted roof. With the door open, the warm breeze would help clear out the foul air. “That’s nice.”
Hemming sipped soup. His hair stuck out in damp spikes and his bleary gaze fixed on her. No longer a Viking warrior but a very sick boy.
Yet he was a man and she was a woman, and a wave of awkwardness washed over her. She gestured to the tray. “I’ll take that down when you’re done. Would you like me to come back or—”
“Would you stay?” A cough hunched up his shoulders. “My only company lately has been the sound of my own cough.”
What a complex sentence from him. Else smiled and sat in the wooden chair on the far side of the trunk from the bed—the only three pieces of furniture in the room. And no hyggelig bits of decoration to warm it up, not even a rug.
Only the book on the trunk, and she picked it up—Works of Loveby Søren Kierkegaard. “Kierkegaard?”
Hemming spluttered out some soup and broke into a coughing fit. He set down the bowl, grabbed a handkerchief, and filled it with wracking coughs, even as he kept his gaze cemented on the book, almost frenzied.
To lessen his embarrassment, Else studied the beautifully bound volume, a strange choice for a man who could barely read.
