25. Paris

I'd never felt more awful in my whole life than I did those long days bundled up in Brett's bed.

Of course, there was bread, and there were other parts that weren't all bad.

Brett had a nice bed, his blankets thick so even in my fever, I stayed warm and wasn't trapped shivering beneath them. The sheets were soft enough that my aching skin didn't chafe just to touch them. His pillows were well stuffed, perhaps the fluffiest I'd ever rested my head upon.

That was saying something, as I'd napped on pillows meant for princes. It seemed Nemedans had access to the nicest down feathers.

Despite the startling comfort Brett's bedroom had to offer, I was still miserable.

Maybe wandering out into the snow had been a terrible idea, but I'd never gotten sick like this before. Sure, when mothers bundled their children up before they went to play outside, they warned against catching fever, but it'd always seemed like unnecessary worry to me.

Now, I finally understood why Hector had twisted his hands with worry whenever Helena and I had gone out to play in the snow. And—well, perhaps it made a bit more sense why the Nemedans were so concerned about it.

I simply didn't see how getting cold could make me so sick, even with the... added physical exertion. And though Brett had been by my side each time I'd woken, we hadn't had the chance to talk about that.

I wasn't sure that I wanted to talk about it at all.

The thing was, even if I liked him, even if I might've wanted to explore what came next—assuming that kind of thing was on his mind—and even if I'd entirely let go of Tybalt, which was hard to do because it'd require admitting that the idea I'd built my life around had been a farce from the start, I couldn't leave Urial behind. My family was there, and while I might be able to let go of some other parts of my home, leaving Hector and Helena was impossible.

Just as impossible as the idea of Brett stepping away from his people. It wasn't something I could ever ask of him. Hells, I could hardly imagine asking him if he might like to visit me in Urial one day. He'd been clear that he wasn't interested in my homeland, or at least not being there. He seemed happy enough to listen to me talk about it, but I supposed when you thought highly of the place where you belonged, there was no reason to look beyond it. Hadn't I judged Nemeda harshly before getting here?

And none of this worry meant anything because it was all impossible and I was getting twisted up in ideas and potentials that weren't relevant. We weren't?—

There weren't feelings involved. We'd just fucked.

Didn't matter that Brett had done it with more ardor than I'd ever thought possible. He just had talent; there was no meaning behind it.

I sighed, sitting up and rubbing the heels of my palms across my closed eyelids. My eyes ached like I'd been staring into a candle for a long time, though I'd spent half the day asleep, but otherwise, I felt better. For the first time since we'd gotten back to the village, my head was clear enough to worry about all this.

"Drink this." An unfamiliar voice—a woman's.

I looked up to see Esmerelda Laurence holding a cup of water. The corners of my lips twitched upward. "I'm glad you're all right."

She made a soft, considering sound in the back of her throat. "Thanks to you, I hear."

As I took the cup from her, I shook my head. "Once we had a way, there was no need to convince the others to come and find you."

She hummed as she lowered herself into the chair at my—Brett's—bedside. "And who provided Owen with the designs?"

I bit my lip and said nothing.

"Who stayed behind to see my birds safe?"

"Someone had to, or you'd have insisted."

When she smiled, she looked... not younger. Gods, if anything, her wrinkles deepened. But she seemed lighter somehow. "Certainly, but that didn't require you to offer to stay instead."

I shrugged. It'd been nothing—second nature, really. The Nemedans hated the cold, and I didn't mind it, though I might not be so careless going forward.

The prospect of staying out in the cold meant less to me than it meant to them.

"It was no trouble."

She cocked a brow at me, mischief twinkling in her bright blue eyes. "Oh, it was some trouble, even if you got more than you bargained for in the deal."

I flushed, ducking my head. Did she know?—?

No, that was silly. How would she? Brett was being kind, certainly, but I'd fallen ill in an attempt to help his people, and he didn't seem to wish anyone from Urial ill. That was all this was.

While I sat, almost squirming out of my skin, Esmerelda leaned forward and touched her hand to my forehead.

"Fever's broken," she announced. "I thought you'd last."

"It was just a cold."

She hummed.

"Where's Brett?" I asked.

She hummed again, that sly smile back on her face. "I sent him to get some rest."

I grimaced. "Shouldn't he be doing that here?"

"Ah, the poor lad can't sit by while someone's ill. No, he needed somewhere quiet with a comfy bed all his own, or he was just going to keep pacing."

This one was all his own, I'd just been dominating it for—I had no real idea how long I'd been there.

All at once, it crashed over me.

I wasn't Nemedan, wasn't one of Brett's people, and I'd taken so much. He'd given so much. Why? It must've been out of guilt and because—because Brett was simply that sort of ruler. He let his people sit before he did, eat before he did, rest before he did.

I—

Well, first, I wished that he was there so I could look into his eyes and apologize and see his expression when he told me it was all right, that he didn't mind that I was there, taking what was his. Because I knew that's what he'd say. He'd be kind and generous and his measured words might even be enough to convince me I hadn't been a terrible imposition.

But the second feeling that washed over me was a sharp desperation to get out of Brett's bed, Brett's home, Brett's village. I could run until I had no opportunity to take more from them.

Before I could leap out of bed, Esmerelda put her hand on my shoulder with surprising force.

"You should try to sleep some more. You're past the worst of it, but it'll take some time to adjust."

Adjust to what?

I couldn't ask. My anxiety made my tongue thick and useless in my mouth, and she blew out the candle. Already, it was dark outside.

"We'll see how you are in the morning," she said.

Then, she was gone, and I was alone in a room that wasn't my own, with a bone-deep certainty that I'd fucked up in every imaginable way.

Even with no candlelight,I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned and tried, but my body seemed to know I'd been in bed for too long already. I couldn't stand another minute.

So I convinced myself I'd just get more water, maybe find a hunk of bread while I was down in the kitchen. No one would begrudge me that.

Only when I wrapped up in a dressing gown and dragged my feet downstairs, I saw a light in the dining room, flickering beyond the open door.

I hesitated, thinking I should go back to bed before someone chided me for moving around and offered me yet more favors while I continued my wanton imposition.

No, I couldn't stand it. Whoever it was would simply have to get over the idea that I was an invalid.

I slipped past the dining room, but what was there brought me up short.

It was only Brett. Despite Esmerelda's best efforts, it seemed he was having no better luck sleeping than I'd had.

Stranger still, he was sitting behind a pile of what looked like presents. They were glittering and glistening, some of them tied in ribbons, some of them wrapped, some open already.

Still, we only saw this kind of excessive show of generosity on someone's birthday in Urial. Perhaps I'd missed a festival, but surely someone would've mentioned it, no matter how sick I'd been.

"What is all this?"

When Brett looked up at me, his eyes were hazy. He was turning a pint around in his hands. Had he been drinking?

That shouldn't strike me as strange, but I hadn't seen him do it before. Sure, he might have a cup of ale or wine with supper, but it didn't look like he'd eaten recently. It looked like he should be asleep in bed.

Most likely, he wasn't because I'd invaded his room and had stayed there for at least a week.

Rather than answer me, Brett's hollow gaze dragged over the mountain of gifts before him.

"Is everything all right?" I asked again, stepping closer. "Is it your birthday, or did—did someone get married?"

Finally, Brett looked up at me, and he laughed. It was the bleakest sound I'd ever heard.