Chapter 26 #2
“It’s not my job to play nursemaid to tenants!”
A pulse of black wrath shot through Nigel’s veins.
He surged to his feet, hit his head on the low ceiling, and staggered back, seeing stars.
It was this alone which spared Mrs. Boggs from becoming a cloud of swiftly-dispersing anti-glitter right then and there.
The pain was just enough to remind Nigel that he was not, in fact, a Dark Sorcerer any longer, and must find healthier means of venting his emotions than curse-blasting.
“Turn on the heat,” he snarled, striding across the garret to where Mrs. Boggs stood rigidly in the doorway. “Turn it on! And bring hot water bottles. And more blankets. At once!”
Her nostrils flared as she tilted her wrinkled face back to look at him. “It costs good money to pump heat all the way up here.”
“I have money. Heat, Mrs. Boggs. Do you hear me? Now.”
He infused some of the old Grimshade Lord into his voice. He still had it, apparently—the old woman jumped and hurried down the stairs, trailing dogs and black skirts behind her.
Nigel faced into the garret once more, casting about for inspiration.
He saw the thaumatic kettle, snatched it up.
There was no running water to be had; he was obliged to tramp down to a lower floor to find a communal bathroom.
He filled the pot, brought it back up, set it on its heating plate, then explored Luna’s tea stash.
It wasn’t much. Why didn’t she bring teas home with her from the shop?
He must make a point to tell her that she was welcome to everything Garden supplied.
Those teas were for her, after all—Garden had never bothered growing them before she came along.
Hands trembling, he prepared a cup of chamomile-lavender. There was no strainer and no pot—but he knew she did not care to drink her tea with leaves floating around in it. So he fetched out his handkerchief and contrived to make a teabag of sorts. He poured hot water over it, left it to steep.
And returned to Luna’s bedside.
Despite the cold, a sheen of perspiration beaded her skin, and she’d thrown off her one, thin blanket. Nigel gulped. She was wearing her nightgown. Very soft, very delicate, with little lace straps and more lace around the deep V front. Pink. Like a rosebud.
But she was shivering so hard, he could almost swear he heard bones rattling.
Nigel hastily pulled her blanket up to her chin, fetched the rumpled blankets from her roommate’s bed and added those as well. Then, kneeling beside her, he brushed limp strands of hair back from her sweaty forehead. “I’m here now,” he whispered, his words thick and rough. “I’m here, Miss Talbot.”
Her brow, already tense, wrinkled at the sound of his voice.
He saw her lids attempt to rise several times before she finally managed to part her lashes and peer up at him.
Her dark eyes were glassy and seemed almost filmed-over, bleary and uncertain.
She could manage no more than a single glance before her eyelids dropped closed again. She seemed to sink into herself.
Nigel ground his teeth. What could he do? How could he help? Her breathing . . . it sounded so raw, like each gasp was a struggle. Lying flat like that probably wasn’t doing her any good.
He snatched up Bryony’s three pillows. Then, sitting on the edge of Luna’s bed, he took hold of her upper arms and gently pulled her up toward him.
Her head lolled, her lank hair falling across her face just before she drooped against his chest. He held her pressed against his overcoat and stuffed Bryony’s pillows behind her.
Then, murmuring softly, he eased her back again, now somewhat elevated.
Her breathing was still ragged, but perhaps somewhat eased?
Only now she was shivering again. Hastily, Nigel drew the blankets up, tucking them around her shoulders.
“Sir, this is most indecorous behavior,” Mrs. Boggs’s voice declared behind him.
Nigel turned to find the old woman standing in the middle of a hole in the carpet, a hot water bottle in hand, several ragged blankets draped over her elbow.
Rising warily—avoiding another braining on the sloped ceiling—he stepped across the garret to relieve her of her burdens.
“I will tend to my, erm, cousin,” he said in the sort of voice which brooked no argument.
“And you will be paid whatever you are owed and then some. But you must do as I say.”
She lifted her chin in an oh, must I? expression, but Nigel pressed on. “I need you to call for a doctor. At once.”
“Do I look as though I’m made of money?” Mrs. Boggs demanded. “Phone calls aren’t cheap, you know.”
“I’ll pay for it.”
“So you say!”
Nigel set aside the hot water bottle and fished for his wallet there and then. He pulled out a wad of cash, not even bothering to count it, and thrust it into the old woman’s hands. “The doctor, Mrs. Boggs,” he growled. “Now.”
She had the gall to stand there and thumb the bills. Finally, with a dissatisfied grunt, she descended the stairs once more, leaving the frigid garret behind.
Nigel set to work at once. After first draping the new blankets over Luna’s body, he slipped the hot water bottle under the bedclothes, placing it near her feet, which were ice cold and faintly blue.
Then he returned to the table and plucked his handkerchief-teabag out of the mug.
The scent of chamomile and lavender rose with the steam to tickle his nose, but couldn’t disguise the musty stink of desperation and sickness.
“Miss Talbot,” he said softly, kneeling beside the bed again. “Miss Talbot, I need you to wake up. Try to drink this. Please.”
It took a little coaxing, but she managed to open her eyes again and turn her face toward him.
A coughing fit wracked her body, and when it passed, she sank back on the pillow, blinking at him without recognition.
Nigel slipped a hand behind her head, adjusting the angle so that he could hold the cup to her lips.
“Go on,” he urged. “It’ll soothe your throat. I hope.”
She tried to obey. A little liquid dripped from her lip, splashing on her bare bosom, just above the lacy neckline of her nightgown.
But he saw her throat move, heard her swallow.
Some tea, at least, went down. He convinced her to take two more sips before her head tilted away from him, and she sagged into the pillows once more.
Nigel set the cup aside and sat back on his heels.
She didn’t look comfortable. Not with her neck bent like that.
He removed his silk scarf, rolled it up, and tucked it against her shoulder to create a bit more support.
Luna woke while his hand was still cradling her face, trying to adjust the angle of her head.
Frowning, she turned her glassy-eyed gaze his way.
This time, there was a flash of recognition.
“Miss Talbot?” Nigel said, peering at her earnestly from under his crinkled brow.
She blinked once. Then another coughing fit shook her from the inside out. The brutal hacking caused her body to curl over in pain, and she might well have fallen off the bed save that Nigel caught her by the shoulders and held her upright.
When it was through, she sank against him, her head on his shoulder, shuddering.
By the way she breathed, Nigel suspected she was unconscious.
But when, very slowly, very gently, he eased her back onto the pillows, her eyes were still open.
They struggled to focus on him, as though peering through many layers of dreaming veils.
Her lips parted, and she spoke: “Mr. . . . Mr. Grimm?”
“Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, it’s me. I’m here. I’m here, Miss Talbot. You’re not alone.”
Her mouth moved as though she wanted to speak. No words would come, however, and soon she sank back into oblivion.