And again.
Time lost its meaning.
There was only heat and cold, pain and drifting, the uneasy sense of falling and rising without ever quite reaching either end. At times he was aware of voices, of movement, of hands that lifted him, turned him, steadied him.
Always the same presence.
Always that same gentleness.
Once, he thought he heard singing—low and soothing, though the words escaped him.
Then darkness again.
It might have been a day.
It might have been a week.
He did not know.
Until—
He woke.
Truly woke.
The world resolved slowly, as though emerging from a thick fog. The air was still warm, but no longer suffocating. The pounding in his head had lessened, though it lingered still, dull and insistent.
He turned his head.
And saw her.
She sat beside him, a bowl in her lap, her hands steady as she stirred whatever it held. At the movement, she looked up.
Their eyes met.
She was young—no more than a few years past girlhood—and there was something about her that did not fit easily into any expectation he had known. Her skin was too light to be native, yet not of the clear fairness of England. Her features held a softness that was unfamiliar, her dark eyes watchful and kind.
She hesitated only a moment before rising and coming nearer.
“You are awake,” she said.
Her voice was gentle.
Her English—careful, but practiced.
Frederick frowned faintly, his thoughts slow to gather. “Where…?”
She reached for the cloth and touched it once more to his brow. The coolness was no less welcome now than it had been in his fever.
“You must not speak too much,” she said. “You have been very ill.”
He tried again. “How long—?”
“Many days,” she said simply.
He let his head fall back.
Alive.
