Chapter Twelve
It’s me, Merrow,” a woman’s voice said.
I twisted away from the light that suddenly flooded the room.
“You called out, and I...” I felt a cold hand on the side of my face. “You’re burning.”
When I tried to open my eyes, the light stung them. The bedsheets felt like ice and the tears on my cheeks were hot.
A wet cloth was pressed to my head. I could not stop shivering.
“I want to go home,” I managed to whisper.
The voice that answered me was so tender that my trembling body stilled.
“I know, dear. We’ll bring you home very soon. But for now, just rest and let us take care of you.”
It was my own mother standing over me. It was Marigold Shawe. She’d returned, just as my father had always said she would. I felt a rush of warmth spread through my body, a sense of peace and security, my mother’s love enveloping me for thefirst time in so many years.This is what it feels like,I thought.This is it.
WHENIAWAKENED,sunlight was streaming into the room. Rosalie was asleep in a chair. There was a cup of water on my bedside table and I drank it greedily, my mind racing. Something had happened in the night, but I could not remember it clearly. When I set down the cup, Rosalie stirred.
“Hello,” she said. “You developed an infection in the night, and a fever. How are you feeling now?”
My leg throbbed, and I felt groggy, but I didn’t think I had a fever. “I’m okay.” I thought back over the night, trying to remember. “Did the doctor come again?”
“No. I called him, and he talked me through bringing your fever down with wet washcloths and ibuprofen. He’ll be here later to take another look at the wound.”
I glanced toward the window. The sunlight did not seem like the thin light of morning. “What time is it?”
Rosalie checked her watch. “It’s nearly noon.”
I had never slept so late. At Horseshoe Cliff, Amir would have been awake for hours by now, wondering where I was. I moved to push the sheets aside, but Rosalie stood.
“Rest a bit longer.” She smoothed the sheets over me. She wore pale gray cashmere pants and a top. I could not tell if they were pajamas. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail and white-blond strands framed her face, which was long and as pale as her children’s, her eyes a bright blue. Everything abouther seemed softer than it had the day before. I was amazed to think of her sleeping in the chair at the foot of my bed.
“Are you hungry?” she asked. “What would you like? Scrambled eggs—”
I must have pulled a face because she laughed.
“Not a fan of eggs?”
“We have chickens at Horseshoe Cliff. Alotof chickens. So...”
“A lot of eggs. I see. Well, we did bring a box of chocolate croissants from the city. If Emma hasn’t already eaten them all, would you like one?”
I grinned. I’d never had a chocolate croissant—or even a plain croissant, for that matter. “Yes, please.”
When Rosalie left, I sunk down below the covers and pressed my face against the soft pillow. I would need to remember this feeling, to etch it into memory.
Rosalie returned with a tray that held two croissants and a glass of orange juice. The croissant was warm in my hand and when I bit into it, chocolate dripped from the other end of the pastry and landed on the white plate below. I didn’t pay any attention to Rosalie while I ate, and by the time I finished both croissants and she came into focus again, her expression was troubled. I felt embarrassed for eating so quickly, but not so embarrassed that I didn’t lick each of my fingers clean. I was debating licking the plate when Rosalie spoke.
“You were very upset last night. You screamed in your sleep.”
My face grew warm. “I’m sorry that I woke you. I don’t think I knew where I was.”
“There’s no need to apologize.” Rosalie hesitated before speaking again. “You were screaming your brother’s name over and over. Bear.”
I looked down at the plate on my lap. The smears of chocolate were as dark as mud.
