Salvation of Ignorance

Chapter 17: How To Be Satisfied

"But, I thought it was rude to not attend--, " 

"I shall write some notes on your behalf. They will understand you've taken ill." 

"Oh, well I can write them--." 

"No, no. I shall take care of the matter. I want you to remain here for as long as the doctor advises." 

Said doctor personally examined her hours later. He prescribed a medication to be taken when necessary and instructed plenty of sleep and hydration until her fever was broken. Phoebe didn't quite experience anything that she typically associated with a fever and, other than exhaustion, was in a stable state. But a day of rest did not need to be offered to her twice. 

However, despite the thirst for rest, it remained unquenched and she spent the majority of the day shifting her position in bed. The blankets and bedding were of high quality, and yet none could properly satisfy her. She counted sheep, recalled dull conversations, forgot most of the words, then returned to counting sheep. Her body and her mind were water and oil. 

The house had remained devoid of sound until around noon when she heard the bell of the front door ring. There were muffled voices that followed and they only became more clear when they were moved to the parlor that was below Phoebe's room. 

"How good of you to visit." 

"Oh, thank you for thinking as much. But it is the least I can do. That, and my curiosity got the better of me. Um, well, how is she? Do you know what is ailing her?" 

 "The doctor has stated she should be fine as soon as her fever breaks. I've left her to rest until then, so unfortunately I don't think it will be wise for her to take visitors." 

"Oh, that's quite alright. I merely wished to know the extent of her state. Besides, I doubt my presence would help her recovery." 

Phoebe smothered her head beneath her pillow at that point. Peter Talwin was the second-to-last thing she wished to have brought to her attention. His presence merely served as a reminder that he was once again the only possible candidate she had for a marriage. Well, technically she had other English gentlemen who made a point to speak with her and ask for dances. But she hadn't made it a point to truly consider them and place their conversations to memory. Instead, she had prioritized the scouting of her eyes upon a chance to find a trace of familiar womanly-locks. 

"Phoebe!" 

Her abdomen began to dance against her skin and she grasped at the activity, attempting to steal its vitality through its demise. She hated him mere seconds before, and hated him still. But her whole body danced at the sound of her name on his lips. Oh, the variations of tones he sung it within one night: a breathy cry, a deep serenade, quickly so it barely tickled her ear, and elongated so she could savor both blessed syllables. She despised him, but her body reacted otherwise. 

Her head throbbed and she placed a hand to her temples to make certain no one was plunging a knife through them. At her bedside remained the untouched soup from this morning, so she hadn't the slightest idea what her body wished for her to regurgitate. She bit her lower lip, hoping to stifle what it would succeed in bringing to the surface and to silence the sobs that revealed her plight. Pulling the blankets tighter, she hoped to aid her puckering skin. 

The only control she had were over her eyes and they excreted liquid pain for her salvation. To aid the salvation, she endeavored to remind herself that the sensations were merely an exaggeration. In addition, she attempted to slow her breathing, but it only increased its requirement. Just as it had done that night of temptations to make the blasphemous confession, her lessons were useless in this predicament.