Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
Sorcha
“What happened?” I asked, stirring against Neal’s chest. He was awake, hair curling in the stifling bayou humidity, looking over a stack of papers that were strewn about the bed. Milkweed nested somewhere near my feet. Neal’s watch on our bedside shelf read four o’clock.
“You scared me half to death,” Neal replied.
“I’m okay now though?” I cuddled back into his chest.
“You’re okay now,” Neal replied, bending to kiss my hair.
Milkweed hopped up to the head of the bed, pawing happy little circles on my chest.
“Wake up. Wake up,” he repeated, mimicry still matching the panic in Neal’s tone from the night before.
“That’s becoming a favorite,” Neal muttered.
“Neal, what happened?” I asked again. I remembered the storm and Ansel dragging Iksura’s operative into his cabin. I remember the sound the man’s breath had made as Ansel’s hands clenched around his neck. But everything after was black and foggy and uncertain.
“Your fever relapsed,” Neal said, “and we didn’t catch it with all that awful business with Iksura and the nixie. I got you yarrow. The fever broke. You slept it off. But, my word, you had me terrified.”
“I’ll try to avoid that in the future,” I mumbled into his shoulder.
“But come on,” Neal said, “Milkweed’s right. Let’s get you up and dressed and get you some food. Ansel and Andrew just went up for dinner.”
“Do I have to wear that dress Ansel bought that doesn’t fit?” I complained, still not moving.
“Unfortunately? To avoid scandalizing our far more genteel first-class counterparts,” Neal said, “I think you do.”
“Fine,” I huffed. “Find my clothes. Help me put them on. And I’ll go. Provided there is tea. Otherwise I’m staging a protest.”
“Staging a protest,” Milkweed repeated.
“That may be inconvenient at some point,” Neal muttered as he helped me into my dress.
Dinner passed uneventfully. I kept down food.
Andrew managed to avoid mentioning how he’d awkwardly barged in on us earlier—something I only vaguely recalled but Neal recounted in vivid and irate detail.
But by the time the waiter cleared our plates I was fading.
Fever like that was exhausting. Before, on the trail, Neal would have just pulled me close and let me doze against his chest. I knew he’d appreciate an opportunity to talk with Ansel, learn more about Andrew.
We’d all barely spoken during the storm.
But a quick glance around the salon made jarringly clear just how much attention that would draw to us.
Not an option. So I tugged on Neal’s sleeve, then nodded toward the door, and quickly followed him out onto the deck toward our cabin.
“Can we stay outside for a bit?” I asked as we walked. “It’s finally not muggy.”
“I think we got enough distance from the coast,” Neal agreed.
We settled on the steps at the back of the ship leading up to the top deck.
“Will I like Islay?” I asked as we sat together, Neal’s thumb tracing absently over my knuckles.
“I’ve never been,” Neal admitted. “My dad just moved up there.”
“So where did you grow up?” I asked. “I’m realizing you have me at a disadvantage. You studied my family. And I barely know where you’re from.”
“And you want to learn now?” Neal asked, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t you need to go sleep?”
“I needed to be out of that room with all of those people,” I replied. “I needed to be somewhere that I could fall asleep on your shoulder and it wouldn’t make a scene. I don’t need to get in bed right now. So talk.”
Neal chuckled but complied.
“I was born in Belfast,” he said. “May of 1734. Mama was from Sicily, grew herbs for perfumiers. Da grew up in Cork—six generations of Stewards. I lived with my da and my aunt until I turned twelve. At the Outer Court in Edinburgh—with your parents. And then, per tradition, he sent me to start studying. I worked at, I don’t know .
. . eight or ten different noble households?
Mostly healers. Some lower-level diplomats.
That kind of thing. All over Europe. Scandinavia was my favorite for what that’s worth.
I was in Bratislava before I came to you.
And then I got the letter. My da wanted to retire.
So I came here. And I met you and I think you know the rest of that story. ”
“Siblings?” I asked.
Neal shook his head.
“Does your aunt come with an uncle? Cousins?” I pressed.
“You’re nosy,” Neal laughed.
“You’re my husband,” I replied. “I’m allowed to be nosy.”
“Okay, fine,” Neal said. “Aunt Irene is married. Her husband works with the Courts so he was always traveling. So she lived with me and my dad. She had her son Cavan back in ’13. I was already training by then. Haven’t met him, just sent letters.”
“And your mom?” I asked. I knew. I’d heard from Glen. But I had to hear him say it. “Why have I heard so little about your undoubtedly delightful mother?”
Neal took a deep breath. “My mom died having me.”
I hummed, understanding. Then I tucked myself closer up against him, arms wrapping protectively around my belly.
“You think that’ll happen to me?” I asked without thinking, looking up at him.
“Not if I have anything to do with it,” Neal replied, kissing my head. “You’re getting that big healthy baby. And you’re gonna watch them grow up. I promise, Sorcha.”