Chapter 28
The first time he gave her the dose, Luna’s eyes flew wide and stared up at him with such accusation, even as her hands clawed at his forearms. Nigel had hated himself many times over the course of the last several years, but possibly never more so than in that moment.
But he did as Doctor Bucket had demonstrated, pinching her nose and clamping her jaw shut, until he saw her throat move in a swallow. When he let her go, she rolled onto her side, nearly falling out of bed as she coughed and gagged. But no medicine came up. So that was a mercy.
Gently, uttering a stream of whispered apologies, Nigel eased her back onto the pillows again.
Her poultice was knocked askew, the plasters pulling away from her delicate skin.
He peeled it up as gently as he could and wiped away the gunky black residue.
It was disgusting work, but he managed it, and managed as well to assemble the fresh poultice and stick it in place.
Luna did not seem to be aware of him throughout this process.
When those unpleasant duties were accomplished, he plied her with a little more chamomile tea. She seemed halfway conscious for this, and he managed to get a bit more down than he had before. Water, however, she would not take. Just tea.
Time passed; evening drew on. And the room slowly roasted, relieved only by occasional arctic blasts issued in through the cracked window.
Nigel removed his tie and waistcoat, rolled up his sleeves, and unbuttoned his shirt.
Luna, meanwhile, shivered so hard, it was a struggle to keep the blankets on her.
She seemed to whiplash between scalding one moment and freezing the next.
Several times, Nigel called down to Mrs. Boggs to reheat the hot water bottle.
Each time cost him another small fortune.
He chose not to think about the expense he was racking up.
No wonder Luna had never managed to save up for a new pair of shoes.
It was a miracle she survived at all under the thrall of such a pinchpenny.
The chantry bells on Giltspur Street rang in the distance, marking the hour.
Nigel grimaced. Time for the next dose. Reluctant but determined, he fetched the medicine and approached Luna’s bed again.
He sat on the edge beside her, murmuring, “I’m sorry, Miss Talbot.
It’s that time, I’m afraid. Can you sit up a little? ”
He did not expect any response from her. She had been sleeping fitfully all this while, and her few moments of consciousness had not been lucid. When he spoke this time, however, her lashes lifted slowly. Dark eyes peered glassily up at him.
“Can you hear me?” Nigel inclined his head toward her.
“Just a few drops,” he said. “That’s all.
” He used his fingers to squeeze her mouth open.
Then, just as he’d done before, he poured in the dose and clamped her jaw shut, using his other hand to pinch her nostrils.
A little scream vibrated in her throat, and once more she tore at him with both hands, desperately trying to throw him off.
He refused to let up, reminding himself of what Doctor Bucket had said: “If you want her to live . . . If you want her to live . . .”
He heard her swallow, and immediately let go. “I’m sorry,” he gasped, shaking hair back from his face. “I’m so sorry.”
This time, she did not succumb to a coughing fit.
She lay back on her pillows, breathing raggedly, staring at him, like he was some hideous monster.
Nigel moved to adjust her blankets, aware that he still had to change the plaster.
When his hands drew near her, however, she lashed out suddenly, striking them away. “Don’t touch me!” she snarled.
Startled, Nigel rose from the bed, hitting his head again rather hard. He saw stars and staggered back, rubbing the spot where a bump was beginning to develop. “Miss Talbot?” he stammered, shaking his head to clear his vision.
She sat upright now, the blankets thrown off. Her bare feet swung out over the edge of the bed, planting on the floorboards. Even as he watched, she tore away the plaster and hurled it at him. Nigel dodged and backed up another step. “Miss Talbot, it’s me! I’m here to help you, and I—”
“I know what you are.”
She rose from the bed, a trembling, pale, phantom-like creature in the eerie glow of the one thaumatic bulb.
She raised her hand, pointing a trembling finger at his face, even as she sidled away from him.
“I know what you are,” she said again, her voice so raw it was almost unrecognizable, a pathetic, piteous sound.
But fury raged in her eyes. “Don’t come near me! ”
Nigel held out both hands in a soothing gesture. “Miss Talbot, I’m here to help you. Please, get back in bed. You’re running a dangerously high fever, and—”
“Get away from me!” she cried.
The next instant, her bare feet pounded across the room, heading for the door. Nigel lunged after her, and just as she pulled the latch open, hit the door with his shoulder, slamming it shut once more. He couldn’t let her go charging through the cold boardinghouse in her nightie, could he?
Luna turned to him, wild-eyed. For an instant, their faces were mere inches apart.
Then she flung herself backwards, overturning the little chair as she went.
“I know what you are!” she said again in high, terrified tones.
“I know! But I won’t let you do it. I won’t let you take me! I’ll . . . I’ll die first!”
“Miss Talbot—” he began again.
Before he could think of anything to say, however, she whirled and rushed for the door marked FIRE ESCAPE.
Yanking it open to a harsh blast of icy air, she staggered out onto an extremely small, rickety, rust-ridden, metal landing.
Her hands gripped the rail, and she leaned far out, as though she meant to hurl herself from the top of this building to the muddy snow and pavement far below.
But Nigel’s arms were already wrapped around her, hauling her back against his chest. She shrieked like a harpy, kicking and struggling.
His foot slipped on ice, and he sat down hard, pulling her onto his lap.
The metal balcony creaked ominously, and for a terrible instant, Nigel feared the whole thing would go tumbling down, carrying them to their doom.
By the time his spiked terror settled, Luna had already ceased struggling.
She trembled in his arms, sobbing hysterically, weak and limp as a kitten.
He pulled her closer, turning her frail body so that he could better encircle her in his arms. Snow-streaked winds bit at her exposed skin, which seemed to burn under his palms.
“Come on now,” Nigel murmured, his lips close to her ear. “Come on, let’s get you back to bed.”
She shook her head, burying her face in the crook of his neck and shoulder. With his collar loosened as it was, he could feel her tears dampening his skin. He looked down at her, his gaze met with one very bare shoulder and a lot of equally bare back, all exposed to the elements.
He looked away quickly, staring up at the overcast sky, eerily lit by thaumatic lights from across the city.
He blinked into the stinging snow falling in his face, aware of how one of her hands gripped the fabric of his shirt.
What could possibly have frightened her so much?
Who did her fevered mind mistake him for?
Someone she feared more than death, apparently.
Nigel set his teeth. The mystery of Luna Talbot was an ever-present aura, but for the most part, he could ignore it. She was so open and artless, one scarcely noticed how very little of her true self she ever shared. But a subtle darkness clung to her, underscoring the brightness of her spirit.
And Nigel knew he could never let himself forget it again.
Suddenly, her sobbing gave way to a fit of terrible coughing.
Nigel could do nothing but hold her until it passed.
When she stilled again at last, both sobbing and coughing momentarily eased, he shifted her weight so that he could get his feet under him.
“All right. Easy does it,” he murmured, rising and drawing her partway after him.
She couldn’t seem to find her footing, so Nigel, bracing himself, slid an arm under her knees, the other behind her shoulders, and lifted her up.
It wasn’t easy, but somehow, he managed to angle her through the door and back into the over-warm garret room.
Kicking the door shut behind him, he staggered over to the bed.
There, he tried to put her down carefully, but this proved difficult due to the low-slung ceiling.
He ended up tumbling her onto the bed, himself partially on top of her.
She shuddered where she lay, and he was obliged to roll her over.
Her breathing sounded dreadful. That sharp and sudden exposure to the winter atmosphere hadn’t done her any good.
Nigel set to work preparing the new poultice.
He applied it to her chest with sticking plaster, but when he was done, her breathing sounded worse than ever.
Nearly frantic with worry, he was halfway tempted to run out into the night in blind search of Doctor Bucket.
But something told him that wasn’t what Luna truly needed.
Instead, he helped Luna sit up. Then, easing himself onto the bed behind her, his back against the headboard, he pulled her up against his chest and wrapped one arm around her to hold her in place.
Exhausted, she rested her head on his shoulder, her eyes closed, apparently unconscious.
Her breathing sounded easier, held upright like this.
Nigel carefully pulled the strap of her nightgown back up onto her shoulder.
It slipped off again.