Magdala laid her hand on his forehead. He was oven-hot. She looked up at Zephyr, who was anxiously chewing his nails.
Magdala knew a little about field dressing wounds from training with the royal guard, but this was beyond her skills. She was not accustomed to helplessness, but in the past day and night, it had been ever the dark companion at her elbow, whispering cruelly in her ear, “You are not enough for him.”
“We need to give him something to ease his lungs,” she said. It was so painfully obvious, she winced. “And set his arm. The fever could stem from the break.”
“Is that typical of broken bones?” Zephyr asked. He hovered over her like a hummingbird.
“Yes.” This was Seamus. He had entered quietly and stood in the drawing room with his hands in his trouser pockets. He sighed, defeated. “Take him to my room; he won’t manage the stairs.”
With unrealistic optimism, Magdala asked, “Can you get him something for his lungs and the swelling in his arm?”
But Seamus shook his head. “I will not throw you out, but I will not help you either.”
Deciding that this was better than nothing, Magdala helped Asherton to his feet and led him into Seamus’s room.
Chapter 43
Seamus’s room was small and dark, but clean. The bed was covered over with a brown muslin blanket, the windows shielded by thick brocade curtains.
Magdala made Asherton sit on the bed and helped him strip off his wet clothes. He grinned up at her.
“Stop it,” she said, laughing irritably.
The closet door was open, and Magdala rifled around until she found an oversized cardigan and a pair of cotton trousers. Asherton pulled them on. His breathing was ragged and labored, and he gave into another violent coughing fit. Magdala bent over him, reminding herself to breathe—it was hard, when his lungs sounded so jagged.
The door creaked open and she glanced up to find her father standing in the crack of light, watching her.
“What?” she snarled.
“Dry clothes,” he said, laying a plaid skirt and a heavy, knit sweater on the dresser by the door.
She held her breath until the latch clicked shut and he was gone.
“One moment,” Magdala said to Asherton. “I need to change.”
He nodded, and she quickly changed into her dry clothes. They were bulky and inelegant, but wonderfully soft and warm.
She found her father’s shotfire in the nightstand and took it with her as she climbed onto the bed. Asherton lay down, resting his head on her thigh. One hand on the shotfire, Magdala twined her fingers through his damp hair, parting the tangled curls. The rattle in his chest eased.
“Try to sleep,” she whispered.
He turned onto his back and looked up at her. His eyes were more gold than green in the faint light, and he was very pale, lending him an ethereal quality that frightened her.
“When I was a child,” he said, “Zephyr used to tell me about the ancient faerie women. Powerful, magical beings who were so beautiful they could bewitch a man with one smile.”
“Hush,” she said. “You need to rest.”
He reached out and twisted one of her scarlet locks around his finger. “I could never quite picture them in my mind. Until I met you.”
Magdala’s heart flipped, but she made a scoffing sound. “Don’t be silly. When you met me, my hair was in a cloud of frizz, and I was sweating and angry.”
“I meant it when I said that I love you,” he said.
Magdala tilted her head and traced her fingers across his brow, down his temple, along his jaw. “I have loved you for weeks. I love you so very, very much, Ash, that I sometimeswish I loved you less so I could protect you better, but you’ve unraveled me. I’m undone.”
The room was dark and quiet, the covers tangled unromantically around their legs. Asherton was feverish, drenched in sweat, grimy and bruised. Magdala’s left eye was swollen shut, her lip split, and she was wearing a pilled old fisherman’s sweater. It was the least romantic setting imaginable for confessions of love, and yet Magdala couldn’t think of a better place. A grand proclamation in a wisteria garden might suit some silk-clad couple with a sensible future ahead of them, but half dead, on the run, bathed in sweat and mud suited her and Asherton much better.
She bent down and kissed him. “I love you so much, it aches,” she murmured against his lips. “With every beat of my heart, MoCrida.”
