Page 59 of When the Sky Breaks

“It’s safer than dying of fever,” Andrew answered. “Speaking of. She won’t hold long if you don’t get something in her, not with how flushed she is.”

“She won’t come ’round for me,” I repeated, gouging a finger into her nailbed once more to no avail.

“You’re gonna hate this,” Andrew said, shooting a furtive glance over to me, “but I think you should see if we can get her to swallow even if we can’t wake her up.”

“We should do what?” I asked, aghast, instinctively putting myself in Andrew’s way.

“You hold her head up,” Andrew said, somehow projecting both confidence and sheepishness at once, “and I see if shoving a spoon down her throat triggers her to swallow. If it doesn’t, then we’ve got a real problem on our hands.”

“And if she aspirates when you try this?” I asked.

“We’ll cross that bridge when—if—we get to it,” Andrew replied.

“I’ll handle it,” I replied.

Andrew shrugged. “Just wake her quick. Don’t want that fever to leave lasting damage.”

And so I did. I pulled Sorcha up against my chest, one hand tangled in her hair, the other pressed against her belly, and just begged.

“Please, Sorcha,” I whispered, “please. Please wake up for us. For baby. For me. Hell, for Milkweed. Just please!”

And by some miracle I felt her stir—just a little bit. Her eyelids barely fluttered open. But it was enough. Andrew shoved the cup in my direction and I managed to get her to take a few sips.

“What is that?” Sorcha croaked, lurching more fully into wakefulness.

“Engine water,” Andrew deadpanned.

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Drink it.”

And she did. Tiny sips. Even the small effort clearly depleted her strength. She was slipping back into unconsciousness again by the time she finished the cup.

“I’ll give you two space,” Andrew said. “See you in the morning. Glad I could help.”

I nodded. The adrenaline was fading and I was exhausted, reeling. I glanced down, saw the sweat beading on her forehead now, the rise and fall of her chest steady. Her cheeks were still too flushed—but the rest of her skin no longer held that worrying, waxy pallor. And suddenly she was too far away. I pulled Sorcha back into my arms, held her close. But it wasn’t enough. So I discarded my shirt and pulled off her shift and held her. And then finally, with her feverish skin pressed against me, I let myself relax.

I was half asleep when someone banged the door open without knocking. Ansel.

“What the hell?” I snapped. “Can’t you knock?”

He ignored my scolding and dropped into the chair opposite our bunk. “I got rid of the spirit. Storm should blow over soon.”

“You also strangled a man,” I said, “seemingly in anger. Without process. Or permission.”

“And that worries you?” Ansel asked.

“Profoundly,” I replied.

“Why?”

“Because you’re not on this trip to commit casual homicide,” I replied. “You’re here to ensure the health and safety of your sovereign and her unborn heir until we can get the Court situated somewhere with resources and prepare sufficient legal defense of her title. That is not, typically, a role that involves strangling people in your bedroom.”

“Couldn’t have word of our whereabouts getting back to Iksura,” Ansel replied dryly.

“Iksura seems fully capable of flooding the world with spies and search parties,” I said. “Her discovering our exact location is far from my top concern right now.”

“So what are you asking?” Ansel pressed.