Chapter 4

The doctor arrived about an hour later, stiff-necked and bristling with self-importance; he wore a silk cravat and had snow-white cuffs, and he swept into the room exactly like a man who knew he was the most expensive Blake's money could request.

He looked at Blake, sitting in a large dragged-over chair at Ash's bedside; he took in the room, the roaring fire, the slightly open window. He sniffed at that. "Outside air is not recommended. Unhealthy. Insalubrious, particularly in London."

"I'm sorry," Blake said, getting up to shut the window. "I didn't know." He'd thought some flow of air might be useful—Ash had been complaining of cold, so the fire was hot, but that plus sickness made the air close and stuffy—but obviously he wasn't a physician. "Can you help?"

"Young man." Doctor Prym glowered at him. "This is my field, if you please. Move aside. In fact, you may remove yourself entirely; he is my patient now."

Ash, who was more or less awake, objected drowsily, "Blake is my friend, he can stay…" and coughed.

The doctor focused upon him, rather too much like a hunting-dog upon the sight of a wealthy fox who could afford exorbitant fees. "Ah. A weakness in the lungs. Perhaps inherited? Tell me, how did your parents die?"

"A boating accident," Blake said. "Not likely to be inherited."

Doctor Prym's annoyance spun toward him. "I believe I ordered you to leave."

"The Duke of Auburndale wants me to stay." He'd used Ash's title on purpose; it got him some surprise from Ashley, and a glare from the doctor, but it worked.

The doctor poked at Ash for a while—listening to his heart, checking his breathing, noting his elevated temperature, asking about other symptoms—and Ash put up with this, and Blake listened, and did not interrupt. Though he wanted to. Especially when the man kept barking questions, or talking over Ash's answers, rude and preemptory. Blake got more and more irritated.

But this would be worth the irritation. The doctor would help. He had to.

"Well." Doctor Prym finished with Ash, and brushed his hands together as if dismissing unpleasant sensations. "You are indeed gravely ill."

Blake, unable to stop himself, said, "Yes, which is why we sent for you."

That earned him another scowl. "In my medical opinion, you ought not be here. I know who you are, young man. No doubt you've infected him with some dreadful tropical disease. Or an even more shameful complaint, given your frequenting of so many trollops' beds."

"I haven't—" Blake couldn't finish the objection. He was fairly sure Ash had already been ill. That wasn't his fault. But maybe the doctor was right, and he was somehow making it worse. He had been to faraway places. He had been in numerous beds. Ash had been upright and working, only yesterday.

He could not say anything else. He stared at the carpet, a modern Axminster with a blue-and-cream floral pattern. The pattern mirrored the plasterwork along the walls. Good detail. Well planned.

"Blake?" Ash tried to sit up. Coughed. "Of course this isn't your fault—"

"Maybe I should go." The flowers and vines committed nothing either way. Thoroughly unhelpful, this carpet. "In case of—anything."

"That's ridiculous—" More coughing, violent, broke into Ash's words. He finished, more shaky, "And you know it. You didn't do this."

Blake looked up from useless flowers, couldn't look at Ash, shoved himself up from his chair. Paced a few steps, turned back. Toward the person who might offer aid. "Doctor Prym…what would you recommend? For him."

The physician's eyes gleamed. "I would recommend bloodletting. To draw out the excess. To balance the heat."

Blake had to look at Ash, this time. At paleness, and exhaustion. "Wouldn't that weaken his constitution further?"

"I'm right here," Ash protested. "And I don't like the idea either."

"Young man!" Doctor Prym drew himself up, and became an offended ostrich. Blake had seen one, during his travels; they even had the same ruffled feathers, or in this case, moustache. "It is perfectly safe—a tried and true method of realigning the disordered internal workings, placing less strain upon the heart—"

Blake eyed Ashley's arm. He could not imagine that gracefulness opened up, dripping blood with surgical precision. He hated that thought with sickening stomach-churning horror.

And yet, and yet…the man was a physician, and surely he knew best. Didn't he?

Blake tried, "You're certain it would be recommended, then…?" and let the question hang in the bedroom, bouncing from writing-desk to carpet to wallpaper.

The ostrich grew even more offended. "I am unused to being so questioned. Are you in possession of medical training, sir? Perhaps a doctor yourself?"

"No, I…" He hesitated. He truly didn't know. "Will it…hurt?"

Doctor Prym dove for his bag. Produced an instrument that looked, to Blake's terrified eyes, exactly like a clattering sharp-edged metallic promise of torture. "Some laudanum would be of use."

Ash whispered, "Blake," and coughed.

Blake sank down on the bed beside him. Took his hand. "I'm here."

"Please don't." Ashley was staring at the lancet. Thin and pale as hopeless last stands, he nevertheless managed the command of a young prince, a man facing armies without a shield. A storybook hero, made of resolution, reaching out to a loyal retainer. "I can't, Blake, please."

"If he thinks it'll help…"

"It won't. I know it won't. I can feel…" Ash tried to keep talking, started coughing, collapsed back into pillows. Blake, every internal bone and sinew and piece of himself screaming, handed him water, steadied the cup, supported Ashley's sitting up. Ash swallowed, leaned into Blake's hand, went on, "I'm so tired already…I know I'd feel worse. Please."

"If it's about balance…"

Light glinted off the blade, a nearly audible threat.

"I think I'd die," Ashley pleaded. He had a hand on Blake's arm; and that was fatal too, because Blake could never, never, do anything to harm him. And Ash was scared, and Blake knew about being injured, knew about the feeling of weakness as blood slid out, the way it had when he'd fallen amid mountains in Germany, and the cruelness of a pointed rock had gouged open his thigh…

He put his own hand, big and broad, over Ash's. He said, to the physician, "He doesn't want it."

"That is entirely foolish, young man. Dangerous, even."

"He's conscious and rational," Blake said, "and telling us he doesn't want it. If—if he gets worse—but for now, he has a choice. I won't do anything he doesn't want."

The lancet went back into the bag. The bag slammed shut. "Do not expect to call upon me again. Not after this ingratitude."

Blake bit his lip, doubt resurfacing like a shark's fin through flat seas.

Ash's hand tightened on his arm.

"I shall," Doctor Prym announced, "charge you my full fee," and stalked majestically out.

"Thank you," Ash breathed. "Thank you." Sitting up, framed by sky-blue bed-hangings and cream-hued bedding, he was earnest and fragile and brimming over with relief. He was everything Blake had ever wanted to protect, to revere, to write hymns for.

He shoved himself to his feet. "Don't thank me. I'm not convinced that was the best idea."

"But you did it for me."

"I've seen bloodletting. In Egypt, when one member of the expedition fell ill."

"Did it help?"

"No." The man had died. Blake did not say so; he did not look round, in case Ash read that truth in his face. "But perhaps it would work for you. Or not. I don't know ."

Ashley said nothing for a moment, and then, simply: "Thank you for listening."

Blake spun back around. "I'm always listening. Would you accept the laudanum, at least?"

"It makes me go to sleep. I'd rather not."

"What can I do? There must be something. Anything. Tell me." He did not like the fever-color of Ash's face, the necessity of pillows for support. "A second opinion. Some sort of rare plant. A remedy from one of your ancient Greeks."

"I'm not certain—" Ash paused to cough; it shook his whole thin body. "That the ancient Greeks would be of much help. Unless you're planning to feed me barley soup with honey and vinegar; it's supposedly good for diseases of the chest…"

"I'm happy to make you horrible soup. Do you have barley?"

"Come here." Ash held out a hand. "Sit with me. Tell me one of your stories. Someplace you've seen, something beautiful. Something that made you happy."

Something beautiful. Something that made him happy. Blake's heart lurched and coiled, in distress. He wished he could give it to Ash, if that'd help. His heart, his lungs, the strength in his body.

He poured more lukewarm tea. "Drink more. For your throat. And I'll tell you about, oh…let's see, would you want the story about the opera singer in Vienna, she was entirely beautiful, and she sang out loud at certain moments…no, maybe not that story, it's more fun if I let you imagine it."

" Blake ," Ash said, dismayed, scolding, gazing up at him.

"No, something beautiful…" He took the cup when Ash's hand wobbled. "All right. There was one morning, out on a tiny island near Venice…they have glass-blowing workshops, all sorts of colors, like drops of rainbows, you'd love it…not that, though. Just a morning. I woke up early, and went down to the shore, and I took off my boots and sat down in the sand, and I watched the sun come up. Only me, no one else, me and the sand under my toes and the roll of waves and the light coming up in the sky, and it was…" He did not know how to explain. "Lonely. But not. That's not the word. Like being small, when the world was so big and so pure and so wide around me. So much of it, and then me. Allowed to be there, to see it all."

Ash was gazing at him. Eyes tender and awed, as if seeing a familiar wonder all over again: made new.

Blake shifted his weight. The gaze made him want to duck away, to hide from being seen, to run. Before Ashley knew all his secrets. Every last confession, every word spilled out of his soul. "It was just a moment. And I got sand in my trousers."

"You didn't put that moment in a book."

"It wasn't exciting. Only me and the ocean."

"It was a moment that made you happy. And you gave it to me."

"Well," Blake said, because it was true, "you asked. You should try to sleep."

"I asked," Ash said, "and you told me. Blake…"

But the cough was worse, and cut off his words; he lay down obediently when Blake tucked him into bed, after.

Blake sat with him, watched the rise and fall of his chest, observed every catch and every wince of discomfort. He knew Ash wasn't feeling well; that was fretful sleep, restless sleep, and Ash's skin felt hot, and then hotter, under his hand.

Was the room too warm? Should he open a window, against medical advice? Would fresh air be helpful? Or was that indeed truly inadvisable, given the air of London?

Ash murmured something in his sleep. His forehead furrowed.

"Shh," Blake told him, "I'm here," and stroked hair out of his face. Fewer blankets? More? Ash was shivering, despite the warmth.

He said, softly, "I'll tell you all my stories. Any time you ask."

The afternoon, inexorably, worsened.

Ash woke a few times, weak but coherent. He tried to get Blake to leave, to go home; Blake said, "I hope you're not trying to tell the Earl of Thorns what to do; I do precisely as I please, haven't you heard?" and attempted to get him to consume some weak broth, a sip of tea, a bit of toast.

Ash managed a few swallows, but shook his head, and curled back up into the pillows. "You must have appointments…celebrations, parties, readings…meetings with your publisher… you've only been back in London a day…"

"Two days. I don't give a damn about the celebrity, you know that. And I have an appointment. Here."

That made Ash laugh, which turned into a cough. He fell asleep again, after a while.

Blake sat there beside him, aching with uselessness, desperation pounding his body like bruises. The headache, the one he'd woken with, had returned or never left. It was worse now. Everything he could do, everything he'd done, every adventure—

He couldn't solve this. He couldn't go on an expedition and come home and write a successful story for this. He couldn't make the words go the way he wanted.

He should've come home sooner. Ashley had missed him. Had needed him. Had been trying to cope with a new title, a dukedom, a life completely unexpected, versus university spires and libraries and a life tucked away in Oxford halls. Had worked himself to exhaustion through all of that. And Blake hadn't been here, because he'd been running around islands and glaciers and mountains, falling into beds in various countries, gathering decadent hedonistic stories for the next lurid memoir, and the next—

He'd always planned to come home. He always had come home: not his own empty hideous house, but Ash's, which had meant Oxford, scholar's rooms, cozy chairs, late nights and brandy and himself scandalizing Ash with stories, appreciating each astonishment or scolding or question about history, secretly tucking each reaction away into that longing tiny hole in his heart.

He'd always had that, at least. He'd thought he always would.

Ash might not be here much longer. They might not have any more of that always.

"No," he said aloud. "No."

The loose honey-and-silver light of the cloudy afternoon faded, dwindled. Night came on, thick and muffling. Blues, blacks, obsidian and velvet. Inside the bedroom, heat burned and shivered.

Ash woke up enough to tell him that this was ridiculous, entirely minor, Blake overreacting. Blake just shook his head, throat tight; and made him drink more broth. That had to help, didn't it? Some nourishment?

Sitting in the chair beside the bed, he told Ash about ruined castles along winding rivers, and fairytale forests, and dazzling views over snow-laced ravines. He told Ash the story about the viscountess and her pet monkey and his best hat, and he told it in his best self-deprecating tone.

A thought tugged at the back of his head. Adventure. Explorations. The stories he did not tell, the moments he'd been happy.

An authoritative Scottish voice. A hand on his head, as he knelt and looked up and stopped thinking. Simple silent bliss—

Green eyes. That voice. And Cam was a physician. Perhaps a good one, from the kindness, the skilled hands—

He couldn't ask. Impossible. They'd spent one night together, and they did not even know each other. He had no claim on Cam at all; he did not even know the man's last name, and Cam did not know his.

But Cam was here. In London.

And Blake trusted him. Perhaps foolishly, perhaps imprudently, but nevertheless that was a truth: he did not believe that someone who'd seen him so sharply, who'd known so clearly what he needed, would be anything other than good at healing.

Maybe that was wrong. Maybe that was na?ve. But maybe it wasn't.

It'd be a second opinion, at least. From another physician. And Blake would do anything, including write to a lover he'd spent one night with, and beg and plead and humiliate himself if he had to, if it'd mean Ash was safe.

He summoned a footman—the same lanky anxious-eyed young man from before—and gave some orders. Visiting the Duke and Duchess of Straithern. Discovering the name and direction of their physician, the man who'd attended the house earlier that same day. The footman nodded with gratifying gravity, entrusted with this errand, and darted away.

"I'll just borrow some paper," Blake said to Ash, and got up and poked around the writing-desk, until he found some, and ink.

The footman would return soon. With an address. For a note. Which needed writing.

What could he write? What could he say, here in this desperate bedroom with the blue-and-cream prettiness, where his heart was cracking open?

Would Cam even care? Blake could offer him money—

Would this do anything at all? Would Cam even open the note, or might he throw it into the fire, because Blake meant nothing to him, or because the correspondence might be seen as a threat, a promise of revelation, something that'd cause Cam distress—

That thought sent a spike through his gut, the terrible lancet unleashed. He didn't even know why.

He managed a steadying breath.

He awaited an address. He looked at the night, the fire, the gradual rise and fall of Ash's chest under blankets.

He wrote, carefully, Doctor—I had the pleasure of your acquaintance in Edinburgh; we met outside a bookshop, in the rain. Please believe that this is not a threat, nothing unpleasant—my memories of our evening are entirely pleasant, I assure you.

A reminder, if Cam did not remember him; nothing too obvious, trying to show that he could be cautious, that he would reveal nothing. He hoped that would work.

He wrote, I know we do not know each other well, and I have no right to ask this, but I will in any case. I need your help.

He gazed at his own writing; and felt the tears scratch and burn at the edges of his eyes. He shoved a hand across them.

He went on. Explaining that his friend was gravely ill. That he did not know what to do, and he had thrown one physician out already, but perhaps he had been wrong, and he needed assistance.

Desperation. So much so. But he did need help, and he hoped that Cam would remember him fondly, and he could not bear to not try every last chance.

He signed the note simply, Blake , because that was who they'd been, Blake and Cam for a night.

Peter the footman had returned with triumphant tidings. Doctor Cameron Fraser, evidently the best-regarded among physicians in Scotland, here in London at the request of the Duke of Straithern to attend the duke's wife, who was having a difficult time with her pregnancy. Peter volunteered the information that the duke's father and the physician's father had been friends, or so said below-stairs discussion. Doctor Fraser had come as a favor.

Blake listened. Took that in. That was good. That meant Cam—Cameron, Doctor Fraser—was the sort of person who did favors for friends. Who might say yes when asked.

Please, he thought. Please.

Peter informed him that the doctor was currently staying in Grillon's Hotel, at the duke's expense—it was a very nice hotel—and that the doctor was, as far as Peter knew, presently back there, having departed the residence after dinner. Blake decided that Ash's young footman deserved about three bonuses, and promised him as much.

He addressed the note. He took a breath. Two.

He closed it and sealed it and thrust it at Peter. And then he returned to Ashley's bedside, with cool cloths and weak tea and his own inadequate hands. And he prayed, though he did not believe anyone would listen, not to him.

For Ash, someone might hear and answer. For Ash, who was sweet and harmless and capable of so much good. A future, built of learning and languages, edifices of translation and instruction, shared and passed down to students and the future.

He said, to Ash, "I'll find someone to help, you'll like him, don't worry, you'll be well, I've got you," and he pressed fingertips to Ash's too-fast pulse to check, so that they could both stay alive.