Delirium took her soon after.
Fragments, disjointed.
The carriage swaying.
His lap beneath her head, his hand cool against her burning forehead.
Caerleon materializing through mist. Doors. Stairs. Concerned faces swimming in and out of focus.
Then darkness.
Catherine woke to pale morning light and the soft caw of a crow outside her window. The fire had burned to embers. Dew sparkled in the mist beyond the glass.
She was in her nightclothes, wrapped in blankets. And she wasn’t alone.
Aaron lay atop the covers beside her, still fully dressed. His brow was furrowed, eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Dreaming, perhaps. Catherine turned to face him, slipping her arm beneath his.
Then a sound.
“No, Father.” His voice was raw, broken. “He's my brother. I won't.”
Tears tracked down his face.
Catherine’s breath caught. Dreams were private things, windows into pain no one should judge. Gently, she wiped the wetness from his cheeks. Stroked his hair. Drew his head down to rest against her breast, whispering wordless comfort.
Every muscle in his body was rigid as iron. Fighting something she couldn’t see.
The last word she heard before he finally went still was barely a whisper.
“Aaron.”
CHAPTER 19
Morning light fell across the breakfast table, soft and pale. An excellent breakfast filled the spread, but Catherine’s stomach turned at the sight of food. She forced herself to sit upright and appear composed. Yet, her hands trembled weakly as she reached for the cup of tea before her.
I must control this. If it is an illness, then I will not allow it to taint my last weeks or months. If it is not… it will not defeat me, whatever is the cause.
Aaron sat opposite. He looked composed as ever, his dark eyes lowered to a letter he had been reading when she entered. His brow was drawn tight. He folded the page swiftly when he saw her, tucking it into a pocket as though it were nothing.
I fell asleep with him in my arms and woke up alone. Will he acknowledge what passed between us? Who did I hold in my arms? I am not sure it was Aaron.
“You do not eat,” he observed. His voice was cool, though it held a note of concern.
“I… cannot,” she admitted with a flustered sigh. “I feel unwell again.”
“You will grow stronger.”
“Not while this illness clings to me.” She set down her cup with care. “Aaron, I must speak plainly.”
His eyes lifted at that, sharp and searching. Catherine quailed before that gaze. She swallowed and wished her head would not start spinning without warning.
“The poppy juice,” she said in a rush. “I must know the truth. Whether my aunt and uncle have been feeding it to me for years, convincing me I was going to die like my mother and father. Without it, I grow sick. I thought it was the illness that killed my parents. But perhaps it is only the want of that poison.”
He said nothing, but she saw his jaw harden.
“I have seen many men and women addicted to it. It can kill in its use, or it can kill through its absence. I have seen both,” he muttered soberly.
Catherine lifted her teacup, but she set it down seconds later as its contents spilled over the rim. She fought against nausea.
