Thirty-Four
AURELIA
I’ve never particularly enjoyedgrocery shopping, and since the arrival of Lord Maier’s family, namely his half-sister, meal planning and shopping have grown a bit more complicated. But over the last couple of months, I’ve finally figured out a handful of meals Lady Juliette will actually eat, so I don’t have to make her special chicken breast or baked fish on top of the family’s meal every night. At least with the hustle of the capital city back to its usual wintertime slumber, market days with the children are marginally less stressful since the number of princess hopefuls has now dwindled to only ten.
I studiously avoid glancing at the magazine racks at checkout. It’s been a month since I ended things with Friedrich, half as long as our tryst lasted, and most of the time I’m okay, but occasionally I’ll see somethingthat reminds me of him or hear a song he loves or catch a glimpse of his dazzling blue eyes on the cover of a magazine or tabloid and feel a little twist around my heart. And I’m absolutely avoiding anything that has to do with updates on his potential wife, including skipping out on any gossip sessions with Lady Maier that include her sister-in-law.
I’m loading the last of our shopping in the folding trolley I take with us to the market when my cell phone rings. I don’t recognize the number, so I silence it and slip it back in my pocket.
Darcy and Liam dutifully hold onto the sides of the cart as we leave the market and make the walk home. Lady Jameson is in the kitchen already making lunch for the children when we get back. I love having her around, even if it means her demanding daughter is around as well.
Lady Maier comes into the kitchen while I’m unloading the groceries after the children have sat down to lunch. She holds her phone against her ear, and her face is drawn and concerned.
“Aurelia,” she says, holding the phone away a moment and beckoning to me.
I follow her into the hallway, and she hangs up the phone. “That was Dean Michael from Merryton. They received a phone call and needed to reach you urgently.” She clasps my upper arm and gives it a gentle squeeze, and my brain starts firing off all kinds of scenarios. “It’s your aunt, she’sin hospital.”
That was not one of them. I blink a few times. “Aunt Sarah?”
“Yes, dear.” She squeezes my arm again, and I feel like all the air has been sucked from my lungs.
Lady Jameson peeks out into the hall, and Lady Maier waves her over while she opens her phone again. She says something to her mother-in-law, but I can’t hear anything over the buzzing in my ears. Their voices are muffled like they’re trying to come through radio static. There’s another hand on my shoulder, and I look up to see Lady Jameson’s soft eyes. I see her lips move, but still don’t know what anyone is saying, so I just nod. Her lips make a sad kind of smile, and she takes my arms, leading me to the side door where I left my shoes and jacket.
Lady Jameson places a metal coffee tumbler in my hands and gestures for me to take a sip. I’m startled by the citrus and burn of alcohol, but the shock helps clear my mind a little.
“Better?” she asks gently.
I nod and manage a weak smile. “Thank you.”
Lady Jameson pats my cheek. “Hot toddy, fixes everything.”
A car horn beeps outside, and they usher me out the door with reassurances and well wishes. I sip my drink on the way, and Lady Jameson is right, it does help a bit, but I’m still unable to string cohesive thoughts together. I shoot a quick text to Margaret. She loves my aunt, too.
Aunt Sarah is still in the emergency departmentwhen I arrive. A nurse meets me in the waiting room to show me to her room. She starts speaking, but all the words afterstrokeare drowned out in a new haze of static in my mind.Aunt Sarah didn’t have a stroke. Only old people have strokes.
But when the nurse shows me into a huge, overly white room full of beeping monitors and smelling of strong antiseptic, my great aunt looks every bit of her eighty-seven years under the glaring fluorescent lights.
Her typically perfectly styled hair wisps around her head like a red halo. The right side of her face looks like melted wax, and her mouth hangs at a slant. She would be appalled to know that she’s out in public without her meticulous mask of makeup, but she appears to be sleeping and unaware. The stiff hospital gown only makes her appear all the more frail as it swallows her up in its one-size-fits-none mess of fabric. The wires peeking out from under the blankets make me think of a half-robot from some crazy sci-fi film.
Another nurse is clacking away at a computer in the corner, adding to the cacophony of noises coming from the monitors and machines crowding the room. She’s explaining something to me, but I’m still only catching bits and pieces.
“Miss?” she presses.
I turn to face her, blinking rapidly, certain that she thinks I, too, am having some sort of medical event. I take a steadying sip of Lady Jameson’s nerve medicine.
The nurse is young, probably my age or maybe a bit older, but watches me as someone who is preparedfor disaster. She speaks with such confidence in her knowledge that I think maybe her young age belies her experience. She’s tried to cover up dark circles under her eyes with caked-on concealer. A thick knot of brown hair sits in a clump on top of her head in that messy bun style Aunt Sarah hates so much.
One of the machines starts shrieking, and I’m snapped from my fugue. The young, tired nurse silences the sound and trades out a glass bottle on a pole for a tiny plastic bag of fluid.
“That’s the end of the TPA, the clot-busting medicine,” she explains. “We’ll flush the line with plain fluids to make sure she gets all of it.”
I nod, my brain finally starting to catch up. “So, this medicine will fix the stroke?”
“It will help break up the clot causing the stroke.” Her voice is gentle, like someone soothing a scared animal. “But we won’t know what the lasting effects will be. The clot stops blood flow to part of the brain, depriving it of oxygen, causing damage and even cell death.”
I suck in a trembling breath.Death.“Then what do we do now?” I want to go to her, to take my aunt’s hand and reassure myself she’s really alive. She looks like a mannequin in this bed, small and cold and still. Instead, I just stand at the foot of her bed, clicking my nails together and worrying at my lip.
“Unfortunately, we can only wait at this point.” The nurse fluffs the blanket over my aunt and adjusts some of the wires. She pulls a chair near the gurney onthe side opposite of the drooping in her face. “Why don’t you sit with her a bit? The doctor is working to get her admitted, but it could take a while.”
