Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
Neal
Sorcha’s skin was dry and burning by the time Ansel dragged the body out to the promenade and shut the door behind him. She curled against my chest, murmuring that she felt worse than usual.
I carried her back to our bed, let Milkweed hop up and nestle down beside her, then glanced at my watch.
It was almost one in the morning and her fever was up—even worse now with how dehydrated she was from the seasickness.
She needed yarrow and creosote, which required hot water, which we likely wouldn’t be able to find at this hour.
I thought of all the places I could check, mused how the crew mess might still be open, then realized that investigating any options properly would mean leaving her alone for far too long.
And I wasn’t about to do that—not with her half delirious with fever, not mere moments after our friend and mentor had strangled a man in front of her.
“I’ll be back in just a minute,” I said softly, kissing Sorcha’s head. “Just stay. Don’t try to get up.”
“Don’t try to get up,” Milkweed repeated, ears flattening against his back in worry.
She nodded vaguely, eyes glassy and unfocused.
I ducked out onto the deck, and rain was still lashing against the ship, the wind howling like some living, tormented thing. Clearly Ansel hadn’t found a way to call off the nixie just yet.
I made my way up to the salon—near deserted at this time of night—and found one lone man behind the bar.
I asked first if he had any boiling water and he shook his head, then I asked if he could get me the room number for Andrew Merrick, lying vaguely about wanting to play cards with him since I couldn’t sleep with the storm.
I rushed to Andrew’s room and pounded on the door until he woke and answered it.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“Sorcha’s sick,” I said. “Ansel’s . . . indisposed. I need hot water to steep medicine for her. But I can’t leave her long enough to go find some.”
“I’ll see to it,” Andrew agreed immediately.
That caught me off guard, I’d expected to have to convince him, make excuses. I was fully prepared to beg.
“I’ve got a wife and a daughter,” Andrew said. “I know how pregnancy can get. And I’ve heard it’s even worse for the Elves. I’ll handle it. Go back to her.”
I hurried back to our cabin and opened the door to find Milkweed hopping around desperately, too agitated to mimic, only chirping. Sorcha lay on our bunk, skin flush and dry, limp and unconscious.
“Wake up, love,” I said, shaking her shoulder. “Come on. Wake up.”
“Come on. Wake up,” Milkweed chirped.
“Sorcha, come on!” I shook her harder.
She didn’t stir. I took a deep breath and thought back to how Ansel had roused her back in the Texas desert.
I twisted her earlobe between my fingers, barely getting a reaction.
Failing that, I dug my knuckles into her sternum, hard enough I watched bruising bloom on her chest. She winced, pulled away, but her eyes didn’t open and she didn’t make a sound.
The door slammed open and Andrew appeared, cup of dark, steaming water in hand.
“I found something,” he said, rushing in and slamming the door in his wake. I glanced back to Sorcha, hoping the noise would have roused her—it hadn’t. He handed me the cup and I crushed yarrow and creosote into the steaming water. It smelled foul, like grease and smoke and stagnant salt.
“Where did you find this?” I asked.
“Engine room,” Andrew replied.
“Are we sure it’s safe to drink?” I asked.
“It’s safer than dying of fever,” Andrew answered. “Speaking of. She won’t hold long if you don’t get something in her, not with how flushed she is.”
“She won’t come ’round for me,” I repeated, gouging a finger into her nailbed once more to no avail.
“You’re gonna hate this,” Andrew said, shooting a furtive glance over to me, “but I think you should see if we can get her to swallow even if we can’t wake her up.”
“We should do what?” I asked, aghast, instinctively putting myself in Andrew’s way.
“You hold her head up,” Andrew said, somehow projecting both confidence and sheepishness at once, “and I see if shoving a spoon down her throat triggers her to swallow. If it doesn’t, then we’ve got a real problem on our hands.”
“And if she aspirates when you try this?” I asked.
“We’ll cross that bridge when—if—we get to it,” Andrew replied.
“I’ll handle it,” I replied.
Andrew shrugged. “Just wake her quick. Don’t want that fever to leave lasting damage.”
And so I did. I pulled Sorcha up against my chest, one hand tangled in her hair, the other pressed against her belly, and just begged.
“Please, Sorcha,” I whispered, “please. Please wake up for us. For baby. For me. Hell, for Milkweed. Just please!”
And by some miracle I felt her stir—just a little bit. Her eyelids barely fluttered open. But it was enough. Andrew shoved the cup in my direction and I managed to get her to take a few sips.
“What is that?” Sorcha croaked, lurching more fully into wakefulness.
“Engine water,” Andrew deadpanned.
“Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Drink it.”
And she did. Tiny sips. Even the small effort clearly depleted her strength. She was slipping back into unconsciousness again by the time she finished the cup.
“I’ll give you two space,” Andrew said. “See you in the morning. Glad I could help.”
I nodded. The adrenaline was fading and I was exhausted, reeling.
I glanced down, saw the sweat beading on her forehead now, the rise and fall of her chest steady.
Her cheeks were still too flushed—but the rest of her skin no longer held that worrying, waxy pallor.
And suddenly she was too far away. I pulled Sorcha back into my arms, held her close.
But it wasn’t enough. So I discarded my shirt and pulled off her shift and held her.
And then finally, with her feverish skin pressed against me, I let myself relax.
I was half asleep when someone banged the door open without knocking. Ansel.
“What the hell?” I snapped. “Can’t you knock?”
He ignored my scolding and dropped into the chair opposite our bunk. “I got rid of the spirit. Storm should blow over soon.”
“You also strangled a man,” I said, “seemingly in anger. Without process. Or permission.”
“And that worries you?” Ansel asked.
“Profoundly,” I replied.
“Why?”
“Because you’re not on this trip to commit casual homicide,” I replied.
“You’re here to ensure the health and safety of your sovereign and her unborn heir until we can get the Court situated somewhere with resources and prepare sufficient legal defense of her title.
That is not, typically, a role that involves strangling people in your bedroom. ”
“Couldn’t have word of our whereabouts getting back to Iksura,” Ansel replied dryly.
“Iksura seems fully capable of flooding the world with spies and search parties,” I said. “Her discovering our exact location is far from my top concern right now.”
“So what are you asking?” Ansel pressed.
“I’m asking you to restrain yourself,” I said. “To remember that she is young and sick and scared, and she trusts you. Earn it.”
Ansel sighed. “Bloody strange way to thank me.”
“Just go,” I said. “Please just go so I can look after her.”
Ansel raised his hands in defeat and slipped back into his cabin.
Milkweed opened one eye and perked up his ears from his place on Sorcha’s chest, nuzzling up against her face and repeating, “Come on. Wake up.”
“She’s fine now,” I said to the jackalope, laying back down.
“Come on,” Milkweed mimicked, thumping his back paws. “Wake up.”
“She needs to sleep,” I said, kissing the hollow behind Sorcha’s ear. “We all just need to sleep.”