“I don’t know how,” Ophele said into the silence.
“Then—then permit me to teach you. Please.” Belatedly, he offered a deep bow and held it.“Please.Your Grace.”
“I will. When this is over, I will,” she promised, feeling a giddy rush of excitement. Oh, Remin wouldn’t like it, he never forgave anyone who was rude to her, but she so wanted to learn properly. And hadn’t he said she could study whatever she liked?
“I’ll send my boy up to the manor with materials and arrange a meeting at your convenience, Your Grace,” Master Forgess said, straightening. “When this is over.”
But it was not over yet.
Late that night, Master Cam Sharrenot died. And he was not the last.
***
The day began hopefully. In the early hours of the morning, Remin’s fever had finally broken in a drenching sweat, and Ophele sponged his cool limbs and watched as he sank into a sleep that seemed somehow deeper and…healthierthan his previous leaden unconsciousness, or the drugged stupor from Genon’s medicine. Ophele woke to Emi’s knock on the door, and Remin sat up a moment later, groggy and complaining about his stubble.
“Does your head still hurt?” she asked, inexpressibly relieved to see most of the fever-fog had cleared from his eyes. He managed to sit to the table for breakfast, but was still only picking at his porridge.
“It’s not bad,” he rasped. His coughing had been so violent, it seemed even his powerful chest must fly apart, and she was sure it must have left his throat absolutely raw. Ophele added a little more honey to his tea. “You’re still well, wife?”
“Yes. I told you, I don’t get sick.” But it was lonely, sitting down without their customary kiss and embrace. Both of them kept reaching for each other before they remembered. “We’re looking after everyone, I promise. You will be pleased to hear it,once you’re well. Genon said for now that you should just sleep as much as you can.”
“You’re not giving me much choice,” he grumbled, with an ironic salute of his teacup to indicate he knew exactly what was in it. And though saying even that many words at a stretch made him cough again, still, he wasbetter.
She found that Leonin was similarly improved, no longer feverish and energetic enough to protest staying in his cottage. She had to be very stern with him, but with Genon’s admonishments in her ears, Ophele shut the door in his face and marched off to the stable with Auber trailing behind her, looking entertained. Somehow, it felt as if this must be a turning point for them all, as if Remin’s recovery must drag everyone else along. How could they help but follow the mighty Duke of Andelin?
“I am sorry, my lady.” As soon as she arrived at the infirmary, Genon drew Ophele off to one side and sat her down. “We knew from the beginning that this illness would be dangerous for older people. People lose their water as they age. They go up like tinder with a fever like this, and Master Sharrenot…”
This did not make sense. Ophele sat, stupefied.
“I…b-but was there nothing we could do?” she managed, stuttering in shock. “We kept sponging Remin with cold water when his fever was bad, could we not—there’ssnow,if his fever was so high, and make him drink water if he’s so dry, I don’t—”
Ophele bit her tongue. Jinmin, Auber, and Genon were all looking at her with pity as her voice broke and squeaked and she clenched her hands together in her lap. She could not cry in front of them. She was their duchess, taking Remin’s place, she must be as strong for them as he would be.
“It doesn’t work like that, my lady,” Genon said, full of apology. “I am sorry. He was a good man.”
“No. No, of course…you would know.” Ophele swallowed a sob. Breathed, and stood. “I will not take your time. We will speak of the rest this afternoon. Please keep…doing your best.”
Then she went outside and cried.
How could she not? Master Sharrenot was hardly her dearest friend, but she hadknownhim. He was one of the craftsmen of the town, bringing Remin’s great dream to life, and she had seen the work of his gnarled old hands all over Tresingale. She had watched him at the work of sawing and sanding, the effortless grace of decades of practice. He had made the chair for Remin’s birthday, and Remin had liked it so much, he had asked for three more.
But he would never finish them now.
Was there something else they could have done? What if they had taken him to the infirmary straight away? Mionet hadsaidhe was very sick, but still he had stayed in his workshop a full day before they finally risked moving him in the cold.
It could not happen again. She had to think, to protect the others. She had to…
But as they rode past the cottages by the North Gate, she saw them carrying a small figure out into the cold, wrapped in blankets with its face covered. One of the children from Meinhem had died.
Before noon, two more refugees had followed.
“Please look in on all of them,” she said to Genon through numb lips. As promised, they were meeting in the tavern to take reports, and the numbers of seriously ill were overwhelming. “I suppose, if they are still so thin, it would go worse for them, wouldn’t it? Even if they are young?”
“Yes. I should have…told you.” For the first time, Genon was awkward. “People die, my lady.”
The same look was in all their eyes. Compassion. Pity. Because these men understood death so well, they did not needto be told. Death might come sudden or slow, but it would come. And as the reports went on, Ophele sat by the fire and felt the knowledge of death sink into her like a toxin, absorbed irrevocably into flesh and bone, part of her forever.
What ifGenondied?
