Chapter 16 Raoul #3
“She’s skeptical. Says all adults make promises they can’t keep.”
“She’s not wrong.” But Adele’s eyes had softened, watching me with the baby.
That look did dangerous things to my chest.
We visited five more homes over the morning, and the pattern held. Every baby sneezing, most also coughing. Every parent exhausted and desperate.
But something was different here. I couldn’t identify what, but I felt Adele noticing too, her mind working through data as she scribbled notes.
The homes themselves told stories. The wealthy nurseries with their enormous rooms and gilt. The modest homes in mid-levels where parents did their best with limited resources. The lower-level dwellings where families crowded into smaller spaces, windows closed against the wind.
In every home, Adele asked the same questions. When did it start? What makes it worse? What makes it better? She documented everything. And in every home, I held babies and translated their imaginary complaints, because it made parents smile and loosened the tension enough for them to talk freely.
“This one says your hair is gorgeous,” I told Adele in a dwelling where a young couple watched us with cautious hope. “She wants to know your secret.”
“She has good taste,” Adele said without looking up from her notes. “Tell her I bathe it in sunlight.”
“She’s very impressed with your confidence. Slightly concerned about your decision-making skills, given present company, but impressed nonetheless.”
The parents laughed.
As we left that home, Adele leaned into me. You were sweet to do that. You made it easier for them and me.
I squeezed her hand. We’re in this together.
By the time we’d finished the last visit, Adele’s notebook was filled with observations, sketches, theories crossed out and rewritten.
“I need to compare this data with what we collected at Silvervale,” she said as we walked back toward our quarters. “There’s something different, but I can’t—”
She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes going distant.
“What?” I asked.
“The timing. At Silvervale, the sneezing was worst at dawn and dusk. Here it’s shifted about an hour later.”
“That’s significant?”
“It could be.” She chewed her lip, thinking. “If it’s related to sun exposure, temperature changes, or air currents, the timing would shift based on elevation and orientation. Silvervale faces more eastward, and it catches morning sun earlier. Goldwing faces south, where the sun hits later.”
“You’re saying it could be atmospheric.”
“Maybe. Probably.” She shook her head. “But I still don’t know what’s causing it. And why are these babies coughing when they aren’t at Silvervale? That suggests a respiratory irritant, but what kind? And why the variance?”
I wanted to fix this for her. Wanted to solve it so she didn’t have to carry this weight. But this wasn’t something I could fight or negotiate. This required her expertise and her specific magic.
All I could do was support her.
“You’ll figure it out,” I said.
“What if I don’t?”
“You will.” I pulled her close. “Because you’re smart and stubborn and you don’t give up. And because I believe in you.”
She looked up at me, vulnerability in her eyes. “I’m terrified of failing them.”
“I know, but you won’t.”
We made it back to our suite, and Adele spread her notes across the table, comparing observations from both courts. I watched her work, fascinated by the way her mind moved, connecting pieces I couldn’t see.
She muttered to herself, drawing diagrams, crossing things out, only to start over.
Hours passed. I ordered food brought to the room, sat and ate with her, then watched her dive back into the work.
“I keep coming back to the coughing,” she said, not looking up. “Sneezing and coughing. Why?”
“Different elevation?”
“Maybe. Or different air composition, different minerals in the area, differen…” She trailed off, flipping through pages. “The wind patterns are the same. The timing is offset but follows the same daily cycle. The altitude is comparable. So what’s different?”
I moved behind her, resting my hands on her shoulders. The muscles there were tight with tension. “You need a break.”
“I need an answer.”
“You need both.” I started working on the knots.
She sighed, some of the rigidity leaving her body. “That feels amazing.”
“Good.” I kept working, feeling her gradually relax under my hands. “Your brain performs better when you’re not wound tight enough to snap.”
“Is that scientific fact or dragon wisdom?”
“Both.”
She laughed, but it sounded tired. “I keep thinking about those babies. The parents who trusted me with their hopes. What if I can’t—”
“Stop.” I turned her, making her face me. “You’re doing everything right. Investigation takes time. You said that yourself at Silvervale.”
“That was before I saw twice as many suffering babies.”
“And you’ll help them. But not by exhausting yourself until you can’t think straight.” I pulled her to her feet and led her to the bed. She went without protest, which told me exactly how tired she was. We lay down together, and she curled into me, her head on my chest, her hand over my heart.
“Just for a few minutes,” she mumbled.
“As long as you need.”
I held her while she slept, stroking her hair, fierce protectiveness surging through me.
This woman cared deeply about solving this problem, about helping these families. She’d work herself into the ground trying to find a solution.
I wanted to shoulder that burden for her. Wanted to take the weight of it so she could rest. Wanted to fix everything so she’d smile at me the way she had this morning when I made a baby’s mother laugh.