“Fine,” he said hoarsely, and did not resist as she shepherded him back to bed. “A bit more sleep and then I’ll be better.”
“I’m sure you will,” she agreed, pulling back the blankets.
“It’s just a cough,” he muttered, falling between the covers. His eyes were already closing. “During the war, we used to stand in the snow and cough at each other…”
“Yes, I know,” she soothed, brushing his shaggy hair back off his forehead and letting her hand rest there. Hot. So hot. “You were all very brave.”
He barely stirred as she pulled off his boots and wrestled him out of his breeches, to make sure he didn’t go wandering. And while she had his clothes, she also confiscated his key to his dressing room, tucking it into her pocket. Pulling on her morning gown, she slipped into the hall and locked the door behind her. It wouldn’t keep him in—there was another key on the mantle, if he wanted out—but she would take no chance of someone coming upon him while he was so ill, and trying to do him harm.
“Magne,” she said softly, beckoning him over. “I’m sorry you heard us quarreling. His Grace is ill. You are well, I hope?”
“Yes, my lady.” He looked terrified to be otherwise.
“Your throat doesn’t hurt? You haven’t been coughing?”
“No, my lady.”
“You must tell me if you do,” she said. “And Adelan. Like Sim did, remember? Do you know if Sim is still feeling poorly?”
This was not so much to gather information about Sim as to come at the problem of Magne from another direction. Sometimes he needed circular handling. Once she got the old man wagging his head over Sim, who was also in bed and coughing loud enough to disturb the whole servants’ quarter, then Ophele managed to get Magne to own that why, yes, there was a little tickle in his throat.
“But I haven’t coughed,” he assured her.
“I am glad,” she said grimly. She was beginning to be alarmed. Especially when she went into the solar to find Justenin setting the table for breakfast with nose and cheeks red with cold, and sunken, red-rimmed eyes.
“His Grace is ill,” she told him as she sat down, observing the warning indications in his lean face. “Magne may also be coming down with it. The valley fever?”
“It seems likely,” Justenin said, with a distinctly nasal note. “It often comes with a change in the weather. It is miserable, but rarely fatal. His Grace is still abed?”
“Yes. And if you are unwell, I hope you will go there, too,” she replied, with a flat golden stare that, had she known it, born an uncanny resemblance to Remin’s basilisk glare. “Someone else will fetch supper, if necessary. I should not like people in my household to insist on going out in the cold when they’re sick, and it cannot be good for them.”
The corner of his mouth quirked upward.
“It does sound a foolish thing to do,” he agreed, and sat down, rubbing his head. “Then I will beg your pardon for the insolence of asking you to serve your own food, my lady, and mine as well.”
“Because you’re a vector of plague?” Ophele had never forgotten Wen’s picturesque phrase.
“That is what Genon calls it,” Justenin agreed as she opened up the crocks to find porridge, stewed peaches, and the familiar eggs and sausages. “It seems some illness can be transmitted by touch, or sharing the same air. Genon is always reminding everyone to wash their hands, and cover their noses and mouth, so as not to share the bad air. Pardon me,” he added, and demonstrated by turning his head to cough once into a handkerchief. “If there were any other beds available, my lady, I would caution you against sharing one with His Grace. The fever is particularly hard on those who have not had it before.”
“I will cover my face,” Ophele promised as Lady Verr entered, took one look at Justenin, and sat down at the far end of the table.
It was an unsettling morning. After breakfast, Emi appeared with the news that Peri was also ill, and had not come because she feared to pass it on to her mistress.
“I hope she will stay in bed until she is better,” Ophele replied. “And you, too, Emi. If you feel the slightest bit sick, then stay home. The house will not fall apart if the dusting is not done for a day. And perhaps…perhaps you will be needed to help, if Peri and Sim and Magne are all sick.”
“I will, of course, my lady,” answered Emi, opening her blue eyes wide. “Do you think it will come to that?”
“I don’t know,” Ophele replied honestly, looking at Lady Verr as the nearest thing to an expert at hand. But Lady Verr shook her head.
“I would help if I could, Your Grace, but my knowledge of healing does not extend far in this direction, I am afraid,” she said regretfully. “There are many types of ailments. I know only the simplest herbs for sickness.”
She did not protest when Ophele suspended lessons for the morning and instructed them to dress her to go out of doors. How fortunate that Master Tiffen had come, with his woolensand velvets, and especially the marvelous underclothes that Lady Verr said were a scandal and worse, hideous. But they were so very warm: a close-fitting woolen undertunic and trousers that went over her underclothes, and then her chemise, and then layers of combed wool and velvet, with fur lining the high neck and sleeves of her gown. All of it fitted together without a single wrinkle when Lady Verr was done, and once Ophele had on her cloak, muffler, gloves, and new fur-lined boots, she felt prepared to face any weather.
Remin was coughing in his sleep when she looked in on him, and Ophele paused to look at his sweating face, worried. Genon must come and see him. It seemed impossible that a fever could fell Remin Grimjaw where poison, war, hunger, and assassins had all failed, but he had not been sleeping well, and he had been out in the cold...
She should have insisted yesterday that he stay in bed. Ophele pressed her lips together and went to set the crock of porridge by the fire, where he could find it if he woke, then locked him in the room.
“You needn’t come out yourself,” she told Lady Verr as she wound her muffler about her neck, over her face, and around her head, leaving only a slit for her eyes. “I would not like you to take a chill.”
