Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
“He is the fourth physician I have summoned to this house since the clock struck ten, and if there were a fifth within a twenty-mile radius of Mayfair who possessed an ounce of medical competence, he would be standing here as well!”
William did not stop pacing to deliver the speech.
He was a tempest locked inside the stifling nursery, his coat discarded and his shirtsleeves rolled violently up to his elbows.
He looked frantic. His hair was thoroughly disheveled where his fingers had repeatedly plowed through it, and his eyes looked completely bloodshot under the glare of the candelabras.
“It makes no logical sense,” he continued.
“None at all! A fever is a predictable biological response to an infection or an inflammation of the blood. It can be measured. It can be cooled with ice and treated with willow bark. But this... this erratic firing of the mind? The hallucinations? I have applied every known methodology! I have checked the nursery for drafts. I have demanded the cook verify every ingredient in the supper broth to rule out accidental poisoning. What am I supposed to do when the child simply refuses to obey its body mechanics?”
Seraphina stood just inside the threshold of the room, taking in the absolute chaos that had swallowed the nursery.
On the massive, four-poster bed, Alice was thrashing beneath a mountain of quilts, her small legs kicking out blindly as if trying to run from an invisible predator.
Her tiny face was slick with sweat, her chest heaving as she let out broken whimpers.
The elderly governess was hovering over the mattress, her hands trembling violently as she tried to press a cool, damp linen cloth against the child’s burning forehead, while a somber-faced physician stood by the bedside, staring down at a useless bottle of laudanum.
“Your Grace, I would recommend a further application of leeches to the temples to reduce the inflammation of the blood. The fever has persisted long enough that we must draw the excess heat from the system before it reaches the brain —” the physician began, his voice hesitant.
“We have drawn enough blood to satisfy a butcher, and her pulse has only accelerated!” William snapped, completely cutting the man off as he stormed toward the window, his large hands clenching into fists.
“There must be a rational explanation. The brain is an organ of order. If it is projecting monsters into the empty air, there must be a flaw we are failing to identify. Is it an excess of bile? Is it a pressure on the carotid arteries? Tell me something.”
“Your Grace,” Seraphina called out, stepping fully into the room.
William did not hear her. He turned on his heel, resuming his pace, his gaze locked onto the carpet as he ranted to himself.
“I am trying to be what she needs. I am trying to provide the security required for a child of her station. That is the only logical course of action. It is not the child’s fault that she was born into the world.
We bear no fault for the past, but now that she is under my roof, it is my absolute duty to maintain her preservation.
But how can I preserve a child who is actively tearing herself apart from the inside out? ”
Seraphina moved directly into his path. He was moving so quickly, completely blinded by his own thoughts, that he didn’t even realize she was there until he was less than a foot from colliding with her.
With a swift movement, Seraphina reached out and placed her palm flat against his forearm, catching the rigid muscle beneath his shirt. The contact anchored him. William stopped instantly, his chest heaving as he looked down at her.
“What is happening, Your Grace?” she asked, worried. “You look utterly undone.”
William stared at her for a fraction of a second, his jaw tightening so hard a muscle leaped along his cheek. He let out a breath that sounded dangerously close to a fractured growl.
“She is having nightmares,” he whispered.
“That is the root of this entire disaster. It has been nightmares since the very day she arrived. Now, the fever has turned them into vivid, waking hallucinations. She keeps talking in her sleep. If she is not talking, she is screaming at the top of her lungs. She has not had a single, full night of sleep since you were here a week ago. She will sleep for ten minutes here, twenty minutes there, but never fully... never even an hour before she wakes up shrieking. I cannot understand why! What could have been so deeply, profoundly traumatic in her short life that it would permanently break her mind’s capacity for rest? I do not know.”
Seraphina looked up into his fierce gaze, her hand still resting against his arm.
For a woman who spent her entire life reducing the universe to mathematical equations, political frameworks, and cold, predictable prose, this moment felt terrifyingly unquantifiable.
The look of frustration, the desire of a proud, protective man trying to force the universe to be safe for a broken child, struck something incredibly deep within her.
It wasn’t logical.
She squeezed his arm, drawing his attention fully back to her.
“Your Grace,” she said softly, her mind cataloging the room, the governess, the anxious nurse, the doctor, all of them crowding around the small, thrashing girl, looking absolutely terrified of William Carlton.
“I think everyone should leave the room first. Except you.”
William’s brows drew together in confusion. “What do you mean? We cannot simply abandon her.”
“We are not abandoning her,” Seraphina countered.
“But you told me yourself last week that Alice is hyper-vigilant. She does not sleep when people are in the room because her mind is always on guard, watching for threats. Right now, her senses are overwhelmed by a fever, and she is trapped in a room crowded with anxious adults, whispering, and poking at her skin. If her brain is already hallucinating monsters, we are giving her a dozen real shadows to feed those terrors. We need fewer people in this room. Just you and me.”
William looked from Seraphina to the child on the bed. He let out a long, ragged breath, the tension in his shoulders dropping slightly.
“Fine,” he murmured. “I will try anything at this point.” He turned toward the bed, and gestured. “All of you, retire downstairs immediately.”
The physician looked as though he wanted to protest, but one look at William’s expression silenced the man completely. Within a minute, the nursery was cleared, leaving only Seraphina and William with Alice.
Seraphina walked directly over to the bed, climbed onto the mattress, and sat down near the pillows, crossing her legs beneath her skirt.
William did not follow her. Instead, he retreated to the dim corner of the room, standing completely still with his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze tracking her every move.
Seraphina looked down at the little girl. Alice’s eyes were wide, but they were glossy and unfocused, rolling toward the ceiling as she let out a series of short, frantic whimpers. Her tiny hands were clutching at the air as if trying to ward off a blow.
“Alice,” Seraphina said quietly, without inflection.
The tone of her voice seemed to cut through the child’s panic.
For a single, small moment, Alice’s legs stopped thrashing.
Her eyes moved through the room until they locked onto Seraphina’s face.
She didn’t stop crying entirely, but the frantic, terrifying screams began to subside, settling into a series of soft, trembling sobs.
She was listening.
“Now, Alice,” Seraphina said. “Whatever it is you are seeing, it is entirely unreal. It is not a creature. It is not a spirit. It is not anything that can harm you.” She paused. “What it is, is your own mind.”
Alice looked at her.
“You see, when the body runs a fever,” Seraphina continued.
“The blood becomes overheated. This was observed and recorded by physicians long before either of us was born. When the blood is too warm, it agitates the nerves, and the nerves, which under ordinary circumstances carry messages accurately between the eyes and the brain, begin to carry them imprecisely. The brain receives a message and misreads it. It fills the gaps with things it already knows. Things it has seen before. Things it fears.” She folded her hands in her lap.
“It is not unlike a magic lantern. You have seen a magic lantern?”
Alice gave the smallest possible nod.
“The image on the wall is not real,” Seraphina said.
“It has no substance. You could put your hand through it and feel nothing but air. But it looks real because the light and the lens have conspired to put it there. Your mind is the lantern. The fever is the heat that powers it, and the moment the heat reduces, the image disappears.” She held the child’s gaze.
“What you are seeing has no bones, Alice. It has no weight. It cannot touch you. It exists only because your blood is too warm and your nerves are doing their best under difficult circumstances.”
Alice’s brow had drawn together into a small, concentrated furrow. She was not crying. She was thinking. Seraphina could see the exact moment the fear had loosened its grip and something else had taken its place.
Seraphina pressed forward before the moment could close.
“The remedy is straightforward,” she said.
“When you see the shadow, do not look away from it. Look directly at it and remind yourself of what it is. Overheated blood. Imprecise nerves. A magic lantern with no operator.” She paused.
“You are the one who decides what the lantern shows, Alice. Not the fever.”
From the corner of the room she heard William shift. She did not look at him.
Alice looked at the middle distance for a moment, her small face working through something.
“The lantern has no operator,” Seraphina repeated. “None whatsoever. Let me also tell you something about fevers. I find this the most interesting...”
She did not know how long she sat there talking.
Ten minutes passed, then twenty, then thirty.
Seraphina dismantled the entire concept of nightmares, explaining the physiological stages of sleep, the involuntary movement of the diaphragm during dreams, and the chemical nature of the cool cloth resting on her forehead.
She spoke of Isaac Newton, of the stars, and of the absolute, mathematical certainty that the morning sun would rise at precisely four minutes past five.
Slowly, the tension left Alice’s tiny limbs. Her small chest began to rise and fall. Her eyelids grew heavy, fluttering against her pale cheeks, until finally, with one last, soft sigh, her eyes shut completely. She fell into a deep sleep.
Seraphina waited for several minutes, ensuring the child’s breathing remained unbroken. Satisfied, she began to shift her weight, intending to slide quietly off the mattress and give the girl space.
But the moment she moved, she felt a restriction. She looked down. Alice’s tiny fingers had reached out in her sleep, wrapping themselves with surprising, iron-clad strength around the fabric of Seraphina’s skirt. She was holding on as if her very life depended on it.
Seraphina froze, looking up toward the corner of the room.
William was already standing by the bedside, having moved forward without making a single sound. He stared down at Alice’s sleeping form, and then scoffed. “She likes science?” he questioned in a whisper. “She is entirely asleep, and all we had to do was... bore her to sleep?”
William let out another amused huff, his gaze dropping to the tiny hand gripping her dress. “What do you want to do now? If you pull away, she will likely wake.”
Seraphina sighed softly, settling back against the pillows. “Perhaps... perhaps I shall simply spend the night here on the edge of the mattress. So that she does not wake in terror.”
William looked at her, his expression softening. “Do you want me to stay? Do you need anything?”
“No,” Seraphina replied gently, offering him a small, weary smile. “Go and retire for the night, Your Grace. You look undone, and you will be of no use to anyone if your own mind breaks down from exhaustion.”
William stayed perfectly still for a long moment, simply looking at her where she sat on the bed with the child anchored to her side. “I am grateful for this. You should know that,” he said.
“It is all right,” she whispered. “Go.”
With a final look, William dipped his head and walked out of the room, the door closing softly behind him.
Left alone in the nursery, Seraphina looked down at Alice’s peaceful face. For the past week, she had been stressing over how to copy Euphemia’s maternal tactics, believing that she had to force herself to be soft, gentle, and overflowing with emotional warmth to save a child.
But looking at the way Alice had responded to her, Seraphina realized something.
Maternal affection was not a singular, uniform mold.
Every child required a different frequency.
She didn’t need to mimic her sister’s emotional gravity.
She simply needed to find what worked specifically for Alice, and apply her own mind to it.
She leaned her head back against the bedpost, her hand resting near the little girl’s fingers. For the first time all night, the panic in her chest settled into a calm, victorious certainty.
She had found the key to the nursery.