Page 60 of When the Sky Breaks

“I’m asking you to restrain yourself,” I said. “To remember that she is young and sick and scared, and she trusts you. Earn it.”

Ansel sighed. “Bloody strange way to thank me.”

“Just go,” I said. “Please just go so I can look after her.”

Ansel raised his hands in defeat and slipped back into his cabin.

Milkweed opened one eye and perked up his ears from his place on Sorcha’s chest, nuzzling up against her face and repeating, “Come on. Wake up.”

“She’s fine now,” I said to the jackalope, laying back down.

“Come on,” Milkweed mimicked, thumping his back paws. “Wake up.”

“She needs to sleep,” I said, kissing the hollow behind Sorcha’s ear. “We all just need to sleep.”

Twenty-Three

Sorcha

“What happened?” I asked, stirring against Neal’s chest. He was awake, hair curling in the stifling bayou humidity, looking over a stack of papers that were strewn about the bed. Milkweed nested somewhere near my feet. Neal’s watch on our bedside shelf read four o’clock.

“You scared me half to death,” Neal replied.

“I’m okay now though?” I cuddled back into his chest.

“You’re okay now,” Neal replied, bending to kiss my hair.

Milkweed hopped up to the head of the bed, pawing happy little circles on my chest.

“Wake up. Wake up,” he repeated, mimicry still matching the panic in Neal’s tone from the night before.

“That’s becoming a favorite,” Neal muttered.

“Neal, what happened?” I asked again. I remembered the storm and Ansel dragging Iksura’s operative into his cabin. I remember the sound the man’s breath had made as Ansel’s hands clenched around his neck. But everything after was black and foggy and uncertain.

“Your fever relapsed,” Neal said, “and we didn’t catch it with all that awful business with Iksura and the nixie. I got you yarrow. The fever broke. You slept it off. But, my word, you had me terrified.”

“I’ll try to avoid that in the future,” I mumbled into his shoulder.

“But come on,” Neal said, “Milkweed’s right. Let’s get you up and dressed and get you some food. Ansel and Andrew just went up for dinner.”

“Do I have to wear that dress Ansel bought that doesn’t fit?” I complained, still not moving.

“Unfortunately? To avoid scandalizing our far more genteel first-class counterparts,” Neal said, “I think you do.”

“Fine,” I huffed. “Find my clothes. Help me put them on. And I’ll go. Provided there is tea. Otherwise I’m staging a protest.”

“Staging a protest,” Milkweed repeated.

“That may be inconvenient at some point,” Neal muttered as he helped me into my dress.

Dinner passed uneventfully. I kept down food. Andrew managed to avoid mentioning how he’d awkwardly barged in on us earlier—something I only vaguely recalled but Neal recounted in vivid and irate detail. But by the time the waiter cleared our plates I was fading. Fever like that was exhausting. Before, on the trail, Neal would have just pulled me close and let me doze against his chest. I knew he’d appreciate an opportunity to talk with Ansel, learn more about Andrew. We’d all barely spoken during the storm. But a quick glance around the salon made jarringly clear just how much attention that would draw to us. Not an option. So I tugged on Neal’s sleeve, then nodded toward the door, and quickly followed him out onto the deck toward our cabin.

“Can we stay outside for a bit?” I asked as we walked. “It’s finally not muggy.”

“I think we got enough distance from the coast,” Neal agreed.

We settled on the steps at the back of the ship leading up to the top deck.