Hunters

XXVIII. Health

XXVIII. Health

It had started with the fever.

Fever dreams, half-conscious tea drinking, shivering despite three woolen blankets, sweating through three woolen blankets, too much sleep but not enough.

Lecia had expected the fever to be the worst of it. Rather, everyone else expected that for her. However, once the fever broke and she could lift the teacup for a sip with her own hands, it became worse yet. She had been given some bread to soak up the misery in her stomach—which it had—but two hours later all contents were ejected, posthaste.

For days it went on, a plate of toasted bread for breakfast, a pot of foul vomit for lunch.

It took the assistance of both the Marchioness and the physician to convince the Duke that Lecia was in need of fresh air and exercise. Reluctantly, Vaughan relented. His permission was conditional, though, requiring that he be the one to escort his wife out of bed, and brisk winter air was to have no part in the endeavor.

She was a shadow swathed in a silk dressing gown as she waited for him, seated at the foot of their bed—though he had moved himself to the chaise the last week to give her space to be ill. Lecia was impatient. Invalidity did not suit her.

Her heart leapt at the sound of the opening door. Harry—who had grown quite large by now—barreled in first, tongue flapping from his mouth, and greeted the Duchess with a violently wagging tail. Vaughan could not hide his smile as he slipped in the room, admiring the revitalizing effect the creature had had on his wife. If only it weren't too cold for a ride, he frowned.

"Are we ready?" the Duke asked, holding out his arm for Lecia.

Ignoring his offer, she stood without assistance and said, "Yes."

"Lecia," he sighed, lowering his arm as he fell into stride beside her.

"I'll never recover if I'm forever treated as a patient," she said.

"You could have died," he insisted, "and you're not yet entirely well."

"Hm," she dismissed.

They meandered through the halls of Brahmsboro in heavy silence. Frequently, Lecia stopped to admire a painting or some sort of decoration. This, Vaughan suspected, was likely because she was easily winded and required a break to catch her breath, not because she was actually fascinated by a carving Ezekiel's great-grandfather had done as a child. The Duke did not admit to knowing her secret, but Lecia knew he did.

When they reached the library, Lecia neatly folded herself into a chair. Harry had been weaving himself in between the Duke and Duchess the entire trip, but it was Lecia's lap he climbed into when they finally stopped. He was hers as she was his, and he had missed her when she had been asleep.

Vaughan took in the sight before him. His vibrant wife had dwindled to a silhouette, fading amongst the towering bookshelves and beneath the splay of freckles on the young dog. She was nodding off already from exerting herself. It pained him to see it.

"Lecia," he hesitated, "what do you need?"

She rolled open her eyes.

"I need to go home," she told him. She'd been tempted not to call it her home, but, despite the hurting he had caused her, Martis was her home now and forever.

"That can be arranged," he breathed.

"Of course it can," she said cruelly. Vaughan flinched.

"What is this?" he begged to know. Why did she need to keep wounding him this way?