“I’m fine, I promise,” I tell them, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel.
“Good,” his mother says, passing me the plate. “Eat while being fine.”
Maeve snorts into her tea and tucks one foot under herself on the sofa. “She does that to all of us. Don’t take it personally.”
“I know exactly who I do it to,” his mother says. “The stubborn ones.”
The sitting room is warm in a way the rest of the house rarely is at night. Someone lit the smaller lamps instead of the overheads, the fire has burned down to a deep red bed with low flame at the edges, and the curtains are drawn tight against the windows. Atray sits on the coffee table with soup bowls, teacups, half a loaf, butter gone soft in its dish, and a little jar of marmalade Maeve insisted I try with the bread.
I eat another bite to stop them from looking at me like I might vanish if they blink.
The soup settled earlier, and that should comfort me, but my body feels strange to me now. Every shift of heat in my stomach gets my attention. Every smell is louder. The paper bag from the pharmacy is hidden in the bottom drawer of my dressing table upstairs under two folded scarves, and I can feel its existence from across the house.
Maeve reaches for the remote and lowers the television volume until it is little more than a murmur. “Did he text?”
His mother gives her a look. “He’s at the docks, not at a dance.”
Maeve lifts a shoulder. “Men can text from both.”
I keep my eyes on the bread in my hand. “He’s busy.”
That answer satisfies neither of them, and I can feel it, but they let it pass. His mother leans back in the armchair and studies me over the rim of her cup, not in a hostile way, not even in a curious way, just in the manner of a woman who has raised hard people and can tell when another one is trying too hard to keep her spine straight.
“You’ve got a fever?” she asks.
“No.”
“Chills.”
“No.”
“Pain.”
I shake my head once. “Just nausea.”
“Any dizziness?”
“Earlier.”
She nods and sets her cup down. “If it worsens, we ring Dr. Fallon and ignore your opinions.”
Maeve points at her with two fingers. “See? Family tradition.”
I should laugh. I almost do. Instead, I press the edge of the bread into the soup and watch it soak.
My phone lies face down on the cushion beside me. I have checked it three times without opening anything, and each time, my pulse jumped before I even touched it. No new messages. No summons. No short, clipped order to come to the study now.
He would not send that in text if he suspected what I need to tell him.
My stomach turns again at the thought, and I put the bread down.
Maeve notices first. “Too much?”
“I’m okay.”
His mother stands before I finish speaking and lifts the plate off my lap. “Then we’re done pushing food for ten minutes.”
“I can eat.”
