Chapter Twenty

Theo's stomach ached. In fact, every inch of her ached; a deep, heavy ache that sank her further into the mattress. Sweat stuck her hair to her head. In the corner of the room, Nathanial and another man spoke in tones too low for her to hear.

The next time she woke, Annabelle sat beside her. "Oh, sister," she said, clasping Theo's hand and pressing it to her shaking lips. "Theo."

The third time she woke, she was alone.

This time, the nausea had subsided a little. Cramps still racked her body, but she could think around them. The room was dark, but the moon's cool light brushed the far wall. For a moment, she lay still, acclimatising herself to her position. She was back in her room at Norfolk House, and—

Nathanial. Sir Montague. The boat.

She sat up too abruptly and her head throbbed. Her stomach heaved, and she thought she might expel what little was there onto the sheets. Cold sweat prickled her skin. The last thing she could remember was being in the boat and feeling as though she was going to die. In fact, dying had felt like a positively pleasant option in comparison to the nausea that had gripped her.

She sucked in another deep breath and swung her legs off the side of the bed. Her mouth felt dry and her tongue was like sandpaper. Once she had a drink, maybe she would be able to remember. As her traitorous legs took her weight, however, they buckled, and she flung out a hand to steady herself, knocking the nightstand. Something—a book, perhaps—fell to the floor with a soft thud, and she cursed, borrowing a word from Henry's vocabulary.

There was a sound behind her; the unmistakable sound of someone waking. "Really, Theo," Nathanial said sleepily. "That is not an appropriate term for young ladies to use."

Theo fell over. Her knee slammed against the carpet and her legs buckled, sending her face colliding with the floor. Now she had new aches to add to the old.

"Theo, Theo." Nathanial was beside her now, faster than she could have accounted for, and he lifted her up as though she was a child, without so much as a grunt of effort. He was fully clothed, she noticed, the rougher material scraping against her nightdress.

Carefully, he laid her on the bed and she scrabbled to get back under the covers, pulling the sheets back over herself. It was impossible to see his expression in the darkness, but she thought she saw his mouth turn down .

"Now," he said, "what were you trying to kill yourself to find?"

"Water," she croaked.

"You might have said." He lit a candle, placing it on the table beside a large jug. A glass, it transpired, was the object that had fallen, and after retrieving it, he poured her a drink. "Here. Don't drink it too fast."

She clutched the cool glass and tipped it clumsily into her mouth, not caring that she spilt some down her front. The water tasted heavenly—she hadn't known it was possible for anything to taste so good. It soothed the sourness of her tongue, the dryness of her mouth. She felt as though she could finally breathe. The nausea receded slightly.

"There," Nathanial said, taking the glass from her. "Do you feel better?"

"Yes."

"Liar." His voice was soft and affectionate in a way she hadn't thought she would hear again. "Why would I be spending my nights in that devil-made chair if you weren't ill?"

Theo cast a look at the chair in question, an armchair pulled close to the bed. In her eyes, although admittedly there was little light, it looked perfectly comfortable. She had sat in it several times herself and not suffered any ill effects.

As though he could sense the direction of her thoughts, he said, "Let me assure you that after three nights in that chair, I have come to hate it body and soul."

"Three nights?" Theo's mouth dried again. "I have been here for three nights?"

He took hold of her hand and turned it over, caressing her palm with the tips of his fingers. Her entire body warmed. "You have."

"Why?"

"That is a matter better saved for another time. "

"I hardly think so," she said, doing her best to imbue her voice with a little sternness. Where had the brooding, angry Nathanial from her memories disappeared to? He had not touched her in this way, or spoken so kindly to her, in so long.

"Do you want more water?" he asked.

"Nathanial. Stop changing the subject." She took a deep breath. "And why are you being so kind to me?"

The fingers on her hand stilled. "Do you truly think so badly of me?"

"You were so angry—"

"You nearly died, Theo." His voice was a hiss in the darkness, the words even more stark because of it. Her heart lurched, tumbling in her chest over and over at the sound of them. She had nearly died. Nearly died .

The illness on the boat had been a symptom of something worse. Something so terrible she could hardly breathe past it.

She had almost died.

He cursed under his breath and tightened his hold on her hand. "Forgive me. I should not have said—"

"How? Was it . . ." She remembered the sun, the way she had felt as soon as she had stepped into the cloying heat. "Heatstroke?"

His laugh was harsh. "No."

"Then what?"

"It appears you were . . . poisoned." The words seemed to cost him, and he paused, gazing at the moonlit wall as though he could bore a hole through it. "The how and why I have yet to discover, but the physician was quite sure as to the what."

"Poisoned," Theo repeated. The words bounced around her head, making less sense with each iteration. "But—I did not think I had anyone who wished to poison me."

Nathanial looked down at her then, his thumb moving back across her hand reassuringly. "We know nothing yet. You should sleep. "

Theo had been doing, by the sounds of it, altogether too much sleeping over the past few days. She wanted answers. "Who did this?"

"I don't know, love. But I'll find out. I promise."

Without thinking, Theo curled her fingers around Nathanial's hand. "Will you stay with me?"

By all accounts, he had been doing so for the past three days, but they had reached a kind of truce in the darkness, and she had an irrational fear that if he left her now, they would go back to how things had been.

His hand flexed in hers before he squeezed it. "Yes. I will stay with you." He rose as if to leave, but Theo did not relinquish his hand.

"Not in the armchair. You hate the armchair."

"Then where—" He broke off as he understood her intention. She expected him to argue, or give some reason why he could not. After all, their arrangement had not included this. But, as she shuffled to make room for him, he stretched out beside her, on top of the blankets, hands folded on his chest. That glimpse was all she allowed herself before she closed her eyes.

He blew out the candle. This time, the darkness felt friendly. She let out a small sigh.

"Sleep," he told her again. The silence settled around them like a thick blanket.

"Nate?"

"I regret to inform you that you are terrible at following instructions."

She laughed, before saying, "Are we friends again?"

There was a pause, and his weight shifted as though he was looking at her. When he spoke again, his voice was low. "That is what you want? To be friends?"

"Only if you do, too," she said hastily, wishing she hadn't said anything at all .

A hand brushed her hair, the gesture so light she might have believed it was a stray breeze. "Whatever may happen," he promised, "you shall always have my friendship. Now sleep."

Reluctantly, she decided to obey him, if only because the sound of his steady breaths was dragging her into unconsciousness.