Page 29 of When the Sky Breaks

I put a tentative hand on her back, dampened my handkerchief and wiped the sweat and bile off her face.

And then, softly, “You love me?”

“Since that morning you reorganized my office and built the little boxes for my cats,” Sorcha admitted.

“And you really forgive me?” I asked. “I’m not sure I deserve it.”

“You thought you were doing the right thing,” Sorcha said, curling up against my chest as I tucked the handkerchief away and offered her my canteen to rinse her mouth.

“I’ll take care of you,” I murmured, kissing her hair. “I promise.”

She was worse when we made camp that night—a half-hearted attempt to gather firewood left her trembling on all fours in the brush. It wasn’t just hormones and the altitude. Something else had to be wrong.

At least, I hoped. Because there was no way she was surviving this for another sixteen-odd months if there wasn’t.

I helped her up and guided her back to camp, murmuring reassurance neither of us actually believed. We’d fallen into a proper, affectionate marital rhythm amazingly quickly. And Ansel was eyeing the situation with growing amusement. I helped Sorcha sit down on one of the saddlebags and handed her a cup of mesquite tea Ansel had boiled.

“Sit,” I said. “Breathe. Drink this. Don’t bend over. Don’t exert yourself.”

Sorcha nodded. “Dizzy,” was all she said in reply. “Very dizzy.”

I reached out and touched her forehead with the back of my hand. Too hot, but still sweating, her lips dry and cracking.

“We’re going to take care of this,” I said. “Just stay still. Don’t faint.”

“No promises.” Sorcha managed a half smile.

“I think that tick was carrying something,” I called over to Ansel. I watched Sorcha stiffen at those words, then kissed her forehead and pulled her in close, wishing it was enough to get that scared, vacant look off her face.

“She’ll be fine,” Ansel insisted. “Just let her sleep it off. Elves don’t die from a little fever.”

“Even ones as young as her? Do we know that for a fact?” I snapped.

“She’ll be fine,” Ansel repeated. “You’re wound tighter than a snare, boy.”

I scowled and turned my attention back to Sorcha. She looked unsteady, like even sitting up was putting a strain on her equilibrium. That wasn’t right. But Ansel seemed so certain. I shook the thoughts out of my head.

“You want dinner?” I asked.

“You know that’s a stupid question? Right?” Sorcha asked earnestly.

Ansel suppressed a laugh.

“Fair point. Water?”

“I threw up water two hours ago, Neal,” Sorcha reminded me.

“Right,” I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Sleep?”

Sorcha nodded. “You’ll hold me? I’m all shaky. It doesn’t feel right.”

“I’ve got you,” I said gently, settling next to her, both our heads on my pack. “Always.”

I woke to Ansel shaking my shoulder, hard. Rational thoughts took a moment to catch up with the utter panic I could hear in his tone. Sorcha wasn’t in my arms, instead sprawled on her back closer to the fire, where Ansel was tugging off her boots and stockings.

“Neal,” Ansel snapped. “Up. Now.”

“What’s wrong? Why’d you take her?” I groaned, rubbing my eyes.