Chapter 32
The doctor bleeds my wrist until blue blood has half-filled the bowl that Edvear fetched. My stomach clenches in a way completely unrelated to the last remnants of poison when I follow his instruction to pull Stella’s icy arm out from beneath the blanket and roll up her sleeve.
A parched little cry of pain slips between her lips when the needle pierces her skin. Her head thrashes from side to side. I catch it against my chest, holding her still while the doctor injects the blood into her veins.
When it’s finally over, and we have matching arm bandages, the doctor closes his bag with a snap. “That is all I can do for now. Make sure she stays comfortable, and try to get her to take a little water and broth every few hours. Then pray she comes through.”
With that and nothing more, the doctor bows and leaves. Edvear gives me a too-knowing look. “Shall I have your desk brought in here for the time being?”
I gnaw on the inside of my mouth. Different snippy responses fly through my head, but I shove all of them away and nod. “Thank you, Edvear.”
When the door closes, and I’m once more alone with my wife, I tighten my arms around her and bury my face in her shoulder. She’s so limp, so cold. It’s almost as if she’s already gone. The tears come then, hot and unfamiliar.
“You can’t die,” I growl, my shoulders shuddering. “I can’t lose you, too. Not after . . . Not after you made me like you, you confounded woman! I shouldn’t have lifted that cursed veil. Shouldn’t have talked to you. Shouldn’t have brought you here at all. Cursed Great Kings! Don’t you hear me, Stella? Come back to me. Please, come back to me.” My voice breaks into sobs, and I fall back against the pillows, clinging to her as though my touch will bring her back.
I was a fool to love her.
Everything I love dies.
I run through the empty halls of my palace home, chasing fragmented phantoms. What am I searching for? Why can’t I find it? I know it’s here somewhere . . . somewhere . . .
A glitter catches my eye.
Gripping the skirt of my ice-blue gown in my fists, I run harder. My feet slip on the polished floor, and I land hard on my hands and knees. Palms burning, I shove up and get my feet under me. For a moment, dizziness nearly overcomes me and I almost fall back to the ground. Gathering my determination, I catch my balance on the white-plastered wall, breathing hard. My skirts float lightly around my ankles, the translucent material revealing my calves and bare feet, clinging to my hips. For once, I don’t care about modesty. There is something here. Something I need so desperately. It itches at the edge of my mind.
Something sparkles in my vision again. Reminding me.
I’m running again. The glitter sits on the windowsill by the feasting hall, overlooking the gardens I used to love so much. I race between tapestries depicting maidens among wildflowers and waterfalls and knights amid gore and bloodshed. I slide to a stop before it, reach out—
It vanishes between my fingers like a will-o’-the-wisp.
My staff brings my desk into the bedroom, and I pointedly ignore it for hours, doing nothing except rocking my frigid wife and thinking. So much thinking.
Sometimes I hate my own brain. The way it tries to shove away the grief, focusing instead on trying to spin this new hurdle to my advantage. I put it off for hours, but each time Edvear slips in to add another sealed missive to my stack, my resolve crumbles just a fraction.
When the day is mostly gone, I finally get up. I’m still in the thin wool trousers and loose white shirt I wore to bed last night. I don’t bother changing, glamouring myself, or even eating the plate of food Edvear has left for me. The second plate, actually. The first untouched plate sits on my bedside table. Beside it is a mostly full mug of tepid broth and a cup of water. I didn’t get much down her throat earlier.
Making sure I’ve piled every blanket I can find on top of Stella and slipping a pair of spell-heated bricks near her feet, I force myself to stumble to my desk, fall into the chair, and stare blankly at the papers before me.
Distraction.
I don’t want a distraction. I want to stay with my wife.
Clenching my jaw, I force my hands to move, to pick up the first missive, to open it. Reading the first few lines punches the wind right out of me.
To His Royal Highness, from the Imperial Human Tailor. The first set of dresses for Lady Stella will be delivered tomorrow morning at first light. If any adjustments are required, I am happy to oblige.
I need to get control of myself. I cannot allow myself to burst into anger at any mention of her. Yes, my heart might be cleaving in two, but I can handle this.
It’s not as though I’m a stranger to heartbreak. I can handle it.
Straightening my shoulders, I scrawl a reply and force myself to inquire about the progress of the Lulythinar ballgown. Then I move on to the next missive, and the next, until I’m through my stack. I shift to the list of things Edvear has left for me. Mostly household things, like approvals for large purchases and issues with the staff. Beneath it is a scrawled reply in Rahk’s handwriting that says: I’ll take care of it.
It’s a small relief I won’t have to worry about Mama Bagogs or Orawyth right now.
The next thing I do is pull out the social calendar Edvear keeps for me and study it. I take my thickest quill, dab it in the ink, and slash through everything I can possibly skip. Curse the consequences. The whole world can be offended if it likes. The High King can get his underthings in a twist if he so pleases.
I don’t care.
Every few minutes, I look up, stop working, and listen for the sound of her breathing. It’s impossible to detect movement beneath that mound of blankets, but that soft whisper of sound is my lifeline.
The last thing I do is set down my quill and stare into space. Like it or not, I must spin this somehow. No one can know that Stella has blood sickness. Everyone knows someone tried to poison her last night thanks to my . . . little display. I could set Edvear in charge of spreading the rumor that last night’s poisoning was only a guise for Princess Listhra’s real trap, which awaited Stella when she returned to my quarters. Perhaps if the High King thinks I’m getting lazy protecting my wife, he will go back to underestimating me. Maybe I could get Rahk to let it slip to one of those gossipy sisters of his . . .
I cannot spread the rumor that the High King tried to poison her. He’ll know it was false, but since Princess Listhra did try to poison Stella last night, no one will believe her if she insists this second attempt wasn’t her doing.
In fact, she might even claim it, as it’ll make her look much cleverer than she actually is.
When I don’t show for tonight’s banquet, more rumors will spread. Rumors that I’ve gone and fallen in love with the human girl I wed. They’ll reach my father’s ears, and he will believe that he finally has a tool he can use against me, if he can just get his hands on her.
If I manage it carefully, Stella won’t be hurt.
And the High King will walk right into my trap.
It’s then that I notice the next missive on my desk. It’s written in Edvear’s hand.
The High King summons you to the throne room.
Everything inside me freezes.
Movement catches my gaze. I shift, whipping my attention to Stella as she lets out a low moan and thrashes her head from one side to the other. I shove back my chair, nearly tripping in my haste to get back to the bed.
“Stella?” I ask, hating myself for how much worthless hope can reside in a single word.
She groans again. Sweat glistens at her hairline, catching the last lights of the day. Sweat. I place a hand over her forehead and almost draw back. She’s burning up. I rip the blankets off her, leaving her scorching feet bare to the air, and her nightgown sticking to her sweaty skin.
“Edvear!” I call. “Get me a cloth and a bowl of ice water!”
It’s hardly two minutes before he enters the room with the requested objects. I thank him, ask him to inform the doctor of the change, and set to dabbing Stella’s face, neck, and shoulders with the cooled cloth. The excess water dribbles into her hair and the bedclothes.
Her fists clench the sheets as her head thrashing increases. Her face contorts in a wince, as though she’s in pain. Another moan slips between her lips. Then a third. The fourth almost sounds like my name.
“Stella?” I breathe, dabbing her cheek. “Can you hear me, love?”
“Ashhhh,” she moans, clearer this time.
“I’m right here, darling. Right here.”
Her hand loosens its death grip on the sheets, darting up and catching hold of my wrist. I cannot help the simultaneous leaping of my heart and twisting of my gut.
“Ash,” she says again, and this time it’s almost a sigh. Her body relaxes.
Blood pounding, I lean over her, leaving my wrist in her grasp. I try not to bring her discomfort by touching her, but I bring my mouth to her ear. “I’m here, Stella, and I’m not leaving you. Come back to me, sweet wife. Please, come back to me.”
Something keeps me from saying the thing I ought. Those three words my heart keeps saying over and over again. Once I say them to her, I cannot take them back. And once I say them to her, there’ll be nothing to buffer me from the pain of losing her.
When I pull back, I startle sharply.
Her eyes are open.
Those two beautiful doe-soft eyes blink once at me, and I cannot help catching her face in both of my hands, suddenly wild with hope. “Stella? Stella, love!”
“Ash?” she croaks.
“Yes, it’s me! Ash, your husband. Can you hear me?” She needs water, more broth! Maybe if I can get her to sit up, she can take something a little more substantive. Oh, Great Kings! I could sing and laugh and dance from the relief coursing through me!
Then her eyes roll back in her head.
“No, no, no! Stella, stay with me, girl! Stella?”
Her eyes shutter closed again, and her limp hand falls from my wrist. She goes still.
Frantically, I search for a pulse, my vision almost turning black. She can’t be gone. She can’t be. I won’t allow it! I won’t—
There’s her pulse. Sluggish, but steady.
I let out a long whoosh of held breath, release my hold on her, and slump. I run my hand down my face, groaning and fighting yet another wave of desperate tears. Mountains of Ildrid, I can’t take this! I’ll be mad by the end of the week.