“What is it?” her mother asked.
“I’m not certain. He moved his head. I mean, of course he’s done that before, but this was different.” She squeezed his shoulder, praying that he could feel her through the haze of his fever.
“Marcus? Can you hear me?” His lips, dry and cracked, moved the tiniest bit. “Hon— Hon—”
“Hurts,” he gasped. “Like the . . . devil.'
“I know. I know. I’m so sorry.” “Is he conscious?” her mother asked.
“Barely.” Honoria stretched her arm down along the bed so that she could take Marcus’s hand. She laced her fingers through his and held tight. “You have a terrible cut on your leg. We’re trying to clean it. It’s going to hurt. Rather badly, I’m afraid, but it must be done.” He gave a small nod.
Honoria looked over at Mrs. Wetherby. “Do we have any laudanum? Perhaps we should give him some while he is able to swallow.'
“I believe so,” the housekeeper said. She had not stopped wringing her hands since she’d come back with the hot water and towels, and she looked relieved to have something to do. “I can go look right now. There is only one place it would be.'
“Good idea,” Lady Winstead said. Then she stood and moved toward the head of the bed. “Can you hear me, Marcus?'
His chin moved. Not much, but a bit.
“You’re very ill,” she said.
He actually smiled.
“Yes, yes,” Lady Winstead said, smiling in return, “stating the obvious, I know. But you’re going to be perfectly fine, I assure you.
It’s just going to be a little painful at first.'
“Little?'
Honoria felt a wobbly smile touch upon her lips. She couldn’t believe that he could joke at such a moment. She was so proud of him. “We’ll get you through this, Marcus,” she said, and then, before she had a clue what she was about, she leaned down and kissed his brow.
He turned again to face her, his eyes now almost fully open. His breathing was labored, and his skin was still so terribly heated. But when she looked in his eyes, she saw him there, through the fever, under the pain.
He was still Marcus, and she would not let anything happen to him.
Thirty minutes later, Marcus’s eyes were closed again, his sleep aided considerably by a dose of laudanum. Honoria had adjusted his position so that she could hold his hand, and she had kept up a steady stream of conversation. It didn’t seem to matter what she said, but she was not the only one who noticed that the sound of her voice soothed him.
Or at least she hoped it did, because if it didn’t, then she was utterly useless. And that was more than she could bear.
“I think we’re almost finished,” she told him. She cast a wary glance at her mother, who was still working diligently at his leg. “I think we’d have to be. I can’t imagine what there is left to clean.'
But her mother let out a frustrated breath and sat back, pausing to wipe her brow.
“Is there a problem?” Honoria asked.
Her mother shook her head and resumed her work, but after only a moment she pulled away. “I can’t see.'
“What? No, that’s impossible.” Honoria took a breath, trying to keep calm. “Just put your head closer.'
Lady Winstead shook her head. “That’s not the problem. It’s just like when I read. I have to hold the book away from my eyes. I just— I can’t—” She let out a resigned, impatient sigh. “I just can’t see it well enough. Not the small bits.'
“I’ll do it,” Honoria said, her voice far more certain than the rest of her.
Her mother looked at her, but not with surprise. “It’s not easy.'
“I know.'
“He might scream.'
“He already has done,” Honoria said. But her throat felt close, and her heart was pounding.
“It is harder to hear when you are the one with the scissors,” her mother said softly.
Honoria wanted to say something elegant, something heroic about how much harder it would be if he died and she hadn’t done everything she could to save him. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. She had only so much left within her, and words were no longer the best use of her energy.
“I can do it,” was all she said.
She looked at Marcus, still bound tightly to the bed. Sometime in the past hour he’d gone from burning red to deathly pale. Was that a good sign? She’d asked her mother, but she didn’t know, either.
“I can do it,” Honoria said again, even though her mother had already handed her the scissors. Lady Winstead rose from her chair, and Honoria sat down, taking a deep breath.
“One step at a time,” she said to herself, looking closely at the wound before proceeding. Her mother had shown her how to identify which tissue needed to be cut away. All she needed to do was look at one piece and trim it. And then when that was done, she’d find another.
“Cut as close to the healthy tissue as you can,” her mother said.
Honoria nodded, moving her scissors further up the wound.
Gritting her teeth, she cut.
Marcus let out a moan, but he didn’t wake up.
“Well done,” Lady Winstead said softly.
Honoria nodded, blinking back tears. How could such small words make her feel so emotional?
“There was a bit at the bottom I didn’t get to,” her mother said.
“I couldn’t see the edges well enough.'
“I see it,” Honoria said grimly. She trimmed some of the dead skin, but the area still felt swollen. Taking the tip of the scissors as she’d seen her mother do, she angled them against him and punctured the tissue, allowing the yellow ooze of the infection to escape. Marcus strained against his bonds, and she whispered an apology, but she did not stop. She took a cloth and pressed hard.
“Water, please.” Someone handed her a cup of water, and she poured it on the wound, trying so very hard not to hear Marcus moaning with pain.
The water was hot, very hot, but her mother swore that it was what had saved her father all those years ago. The heat drew out the infection.
Honoria prayed she was right.
She pressed a cloth against him, soaking up the excess water.
Marcus made a strange noise again, although not as wrenching as before. But then he began to shake.
“Oh, my God,” she yelped, yanking the cloth away. “What did I do to him?” Her mother peered down with a puzzled expression. “He almost looks as if he’s laughing.'
“Can we give him more laudanum?” Mrs. Wetherby asked.
“I don’t think we should,” Honoria said. “I’ve heard of people not waking up when they’ve been given too much.'
“I really think he looks as if he’s laughing,” her mother said again.
