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Christopher tried to steady her but she only grew more frantic. “Hush, sweetheart. You’ll hurt yourself. Oliver is just down the hall. He came back.” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, not wanting her to hear the worry in his voice if she could hear him at all. “Easy Sofi, I’ll make it better.” He reached for the bellpull and Jeremy stepped in. “Get Oliver or Gabriel. Or both. Get someone.”

Oliver arrived first, followed promptly by Gabriel.

“Has Higgins returned?” Oliver asked, no doubt taking in the situation at a glance.

Christopher threw back the blanket that still covered her. “No. And she’s burning with fever. She thinks she’s back in Tuscany and she’s looking for you. I need help to get more of Higgins’s tea into her. She won’t be still.”

Oliver slid behind Sofia to steady her, but she only grew more irritable. More tea sloshed down her chest.

“Miss Lioni,” Gabriel said. Christopher baulked at his commanding tone, but she stilled immediately. “Miss Lioni, you will cooperate now and let us help you.”

The thrashing resumed.

“Excellent use of your ducal authority, brother.” Oliver cut him an annoyed glance and Gabriel narrowed his eyes.

Ignoring the brief, silent standoff between the brothers, Christopher stroked Sofia’s hair. Again, her response was immediate but brief.

Oliver made an unimpressed noise in the back of his throat.

“I’m going to lay you flat if you don’t shut your mouth,” Christopher hissed through gritted teeth.

Ignoring the threat, Oliver spoke softly to his sister instead. “Piccola pulce, ascolta tuo fratello e smettila di renderlo difficile. Devi prendere la tua medicina prima che Christopher diventi violento con me.”

Her eyelids fluttered, and she immediately relaxed.

Gabriel clapped Oliver on the shoulder then spoke in his own silky Italian tongue. “Quella è una brava ragazza. Bevi questo e poi potrai riposarti di nuovo.”

The liquid went down easily then, with scarcely a drop lost. Christopher let out a long breath.

Twenty-Seven

The two days and nights that followed plodded forward with an eerie sort of timelessness. Sofia’s fever rose and fell but never broke, and she remained asleep or incoherent. No amount of cooling baths, willow bark tea, and pleading words altered the course of her illness. Christopher baulked at the suggestion he rest in a bed and flatly refused the offer of relief so he might bathe or eat a proper meal. He knew he looked dreadful—his clothes were rumpled, rough stubble covered his jaw, and his hair had fallen into a state of complete anarchy.

Even consumed with near-constant anxiety, Christopher could appreciate the irony of the situation. He had become the foul-mouthed beast threatening to drown Oliver’s boots in a rain barrel, while Oliver tolerated his every threat with unprecedented grace.

When both Gabriel and Oliver proved unsuccessful at luring Christopher from Sofia’s side, they sent Violet.

“No,” Christopher told her on sight.

“I haven’t even said anything.” Violet leaned down and kissed his bristled cheek.

“But you were going to, and then you were going to bat your eyes, or tell me the children worry for me, or claim that seeing me thus is upsetting to your fragile condition. And the answer would still be no. Give me a plate of food and leave me be. Gabriel can see to your fragile condition well enough.”

Violet dragged a chair closer to Christopher’s and sat down. “That’s nonsense. I’m not fragile and you know it. And why would I bring you another plate of food when the last one still sits untouched? The children do worry for you, but they worry for Sofia as well, and they both understand why you wish to remain close. Zach even argued with Gabriel in your defence. He was quite determined.”

Christopher smiled despite his dark mood. “I believe that may be Oliver’s doing. I overheard them conversing before … before all of this happened. Zach is ready to stretch his wings a bit and Oliver was rather supportive.” Christopher laid a hand on Violet’s forearm and squeezed. “Despite Zachariah’s differences, he is like every boy in his eagerness to become a man. And you are like any good mother in your eagerness to protect him from the world.”

Violet looked away, her expression despondent. “If you won’t let me take your place at her bedside for a few minutes, can I at least stay and talk with you awhile?”

“Of course.”

“What you said about Zachariah … I don’t know how to let him do that. I see him struggling. And not in the ways every other fourteen-year-old boy struggles. It’s not the typical childhood hardships. I watch his pulse skip in his throat when he feels the weight of eyes on him, and I want to step between him and whoever’s watching. I hear him stutter, and I ache to be his voice. How do I sit and do nothing when I can ease his way?”

“Because you cannot be his voice. Only he can choose his words, even if they emerge on a stammer. He is becoming a man, and he can only feel a man’s pride if his deeds and accomplishments are his own.”

Violet shook her head again, agitated. “You weren’t around when he was a child. His grandfather and sire were brutal to him.”

“But he’s not a lad anymore. He’s had years of your unwavering love to nurture and empower him. That will be his armour when he walks into battle as a man, and no one will be able to strip it away.”