Chapter 30
Olivia
Two months into the journey, and I had become a liability.
I didn’t know where we were. Didn’t care. France, maybe?
Progress had been agonizingly slow—between Emily’s growing belly and my relentless exhaustion, every day felt like a battle.
I was constantly tired, constantly sick. I couldn’t keep anything down, and my mood was bleak.
One morning, I lay curled in the back of our wagon, unable to move.
The thick summer heat beat down on the leather canopy, turning the small, enclosed space into a sauna. Sweat slicked my skin, my body ached, and my stomach twisted into knots.
I felt like I was dying.
Some inexplicable sixteenth-century illness was devouring me from the inside out. With no access to Google or WebMD, I was left to diagnose myself with a very unhelpful mental list of historical plagues.
Diphtheria. Pertussis. Typhoid fever.
Or maybe something stranger—like English Sweat, a viral disease that swept through Britain, or the Scherbock, a type of land scurvy found in Scandinavia and the Netherlands.
Had I been eating enough fruit?
It’s not like we’d passed an abundant orange grove.
A cool cloth pressed to my forehead.
Roman.
He sat beside me, his expression tight with worry as he dragged the damp cloth across my burning skin.
“Count Montego says there’s a town up ahead,” he said gently. “I want to have a doctor examine you.”
I groaned. “Don’t be stupid.”
My hands pressed against my stomach as another wave of nausea rolled through me.
“I’m fine.”
I forced myself upright, the motion making my head spin. “I just need to get out and ride a horse. It’s this lying about—the surge and roll of the wagon is doing me in. I got carsick all the time as a child. I’m sure that’s what it is.”
Roman didn’t respond.
His jaw was tight, his eyes unreadable.
A terrible thought hit me.
I swallowed hard. “I’m sorry I’m being such a bitch,” I murmured, burrowing beneath the covers again.
“I just feel like death warmed over. What if I’ve caught something serious?”
My throat tightened.
“What if this is one of those untreatable sixteenth-century diseases?” My voice hitched. “I can’t even time travel back to twenty-first-century Seattle for proper medical care.”
Tears burned the backs of my eyes.
For the first time in a long time, I felt utterly helpless.
I could go from cheerful to growling and furious in seconds.
What if Roman and I had caught something? Syphilis?
Didn’t that rot your mind?
The thought sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through me.
Roman shifted beside me, exhaling through his nose before parting the leather curtain. “Stop the cart,” he called to the driver.
I frowned. “Where are you going?”
My voice came out whiny and needy.
Roman climbed out, his boots hitting the ground with a heavy thud.
“I’ll be back.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You want to get away from me, don’t you?”
He didn’t reply.
Or maybe he did, and I didn’t hear it.
Either way, I couldn’t blame him.
He had been patient, gentle, and relentless in his care for me, but I had become unbearable. Even I was sick of myself.
We continued moving, Roman riding horseback outside the wagon while I slipped in and out of restless sleep.
Then—an hour later—
The wagon stopped.
The muffled conversations of travelers outside grew louder, the indistinct rumble of voices rising in urgency.
I was about to pull back the leather curtain and see what was happening—
But then—
The horses lurched forward.
The wagon jerked, then broke into a gallop.
The world tilted, swayed, spun.
I clutched my stomach, my nausea turning violent.
What the hell was happening?
Finally, the wagon came to a stop.
The curtains parted, and Emily’s round belly and knowing gaze filled the space.
“Get up, Olivia.”
She stood there, hands resting atop her belly, her face firm with authority.
Beside her, Rosie smiled sweetly, bright as the morning sun.
Now that we had no more secrets, my relationship with Rosie had blossomed.
I felt like her fiercely protective aunt, always watching out for her when Malik wasn’t around.
And Roman—Roman had stepped effortlessly into the role of her uncle.
I rubbed my eyes, still groggy. “What? Where are we?”
Emily tilted her head. “At a healer’s place somewhere in France.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?” I croaked. Then, sharper, “No!”
My pulse pounded as the realization set in.
“This was Roman’s idea, wasn’t it?”
Emily folded her arms over her belly. “Yes, it was. But I seconded the motion.”
She lifted an eyebrow, her expression unyielding.
“We need to get you checked out, sister.”
“I don’t need a doctor. I’m fine.”
Emily let out a knowing sigh, then turned down my covers.
“Have you ever thought you might be pregnant?”
My breath hitched.
Pregnant?
Emily smoothed a hand over her belly. “Believe me, I know what morning sickness feels like. I’m so glad mine is behind me.”
A cold, crushing fear wrapped around my ribs like a vice.
What if she was right?
What if I was pregnant?
My hands trembled as I pressed them to my stomach as if I could feel an answer beneath my skin.
And then, an even darker thought coiled inside me, suffocating, insidious.
What if Balthazar found me?
What if he did something to make me lose this child, too?
Rosie silently withdrew her hand from Emily’s and wandered away, sensing the shift in my mood.
Emily, however, didn’t let go of me.
Instead, she clasped my fingers in a steady, comforting grip.
“I can see it in your face, Olivia. You’re having those awful thoughts again.”
Tears burned at the backs of my eyes.
“Balthazar is far away,” Emily said firmly. “He can’t get to us. And Roman, Marcellious, and Malik are always on guard for danger. You are safe here.”
I swallowed hard, but the fear didn’t ease.
“Please, get up now,” Emily continued, tugging gently at my wrist.
“You need to know for sure.”
I forced myself upright, my legs weak beneath me.
Emily handed me my dress and closed the curtains, giving me privacy.
My stomach somersaulted as I pulled on the fabric, each movement making me dizzier and shakier.
Pregnant.
The word buzzed in my head, impossible to ignore.
When I stepped out of the wagon, the sunlight hit me like a slap, too bright, too real.
“Do you know where the men are?” I asked, my voice tight.
Emily adjusted her shawl. “Gathering supplies. Roman asked me to accompany you to the healer.”
My stomach tightened further.
Roman planned this.
Emily turned toward Chiara, her nursemaid, who sat ahead of us in the back of the carriage.
She opened the carriage door, and Rosie climbed inside without protest.
“We’ll be right back. We’re going into that house,” Emily called.
Chiara nodded. “Okay.”
I blinked against the glare of the sun.
Ahead of us, a small, humble cottage stood nestled between rolling fields. The sky behind it was streaked with lazy, drifting clouds.
The two other carriages stood still, their drivers lounging in the shade, the horses flicking their tails lazily.
I licked my lips, swallowing against the nausea. “Where exactly are the men gathering supplies?”
Emily motioned ahead. “Not far. Come on.”
I hesitated, shifting on my feet.
Then, from the corner of my eye, a flash of movement.
A skinny dog slunk toward me, tail wagging hesitantly.
I held out my hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, she nervously licked my fingers.
Then, she flopped onto the ground, rolling onto her back, exposing a belly full of swollen nipples.
My chest tightened at the sight.
“Oh, look! She’s a mama dog!” I crouched, running my fingers over the soft fur of her head.
For the first time all morning, a small smile pulled at my lips.
Emily’s expression softened. “I see that.” Then, gently but firmly, “Come. The healer is waiting.”
An older woman stood in the cottage’s doorway, her hair wrapped in a vibrant scarf of deep blues and reds.
She watched us without smiling, arms folded across her chest, her clear, light-blue eyes shrewd and assessing.
I stepped forward, crossing the yard, the skinny dog trotting loyally at my side.
Chickens scratched in the dirt, pecking and clucking softly, while a fluffy white cat sat perched on a fence post, watching our every move.
When we neared the door, the cat leaped, padding silently toward the woman.
She bent gracefully, scooping up the cat and stroking its fur absentmindedly, her gaze never leaving mine.
She held my stare momentarily, sighed, pushed the door open, and let the dog inside.
Then, finally, she spoke.
“C’est toi la malade?”
Are you the sick woman?
My throat felt tight.
“Oui, c’est moi,” I murmured, forcing the words past my lips.
Yes, that’s me.
I hesitated, then held out my hand.
The healer took it between the fingertips of her free hand, giving me a gentle yet fleeting handshake.
Her piercing blue eyes swept over me as if she knew my truth.
Then, without another word, she turned and disappeared inside.
I stole a glance at Emily.
“Should we follow her?” I whispered.
Emily shrugged. “I guess so.”
I swallowed hard and stepped inside.
The moment I stepped into the healer’s home, the rich scent of dried herbs enveloped me immediately, heady and thick in the warm air.
Bundles of lavender, thyme, and sage dangled upside down from the ceiling, their fragrances blending into something earthy and mysterious.
Near the unlit fireplace, the mama dog curled onto a thick fur. Her eight tiny puppies latched onto her, suckling greedily.
She thumped her tail lazily at our arrival, then sighed contentedly, closing her eyes.
A strange sense of calm settled over me.
Emily and I followed the woman deeper into her medieval kitchen, which was more laboratory than home.
Here, the herbs didn’t hang—they covered every available surface.
Bunches of rosemary, mint, and chamomile lay in careful piles, some bundled with twine, others left loose.