Was it Stockholm Syndrome? Possibly. But she was fairly certain thatthattook longer to kick in than whatever animal passion had almost seized her that morning.
Just then, Nancy heard a sound that struck more fear into her heart than any intimidating Scotsman ever could—the droning buzz of a bee.
Her gaze darted to the window, cursing herself for not closing it. She’d thought they were safe so high up, and she’d figured the weather was too cold for bees to thrive here.
Yet, there it was, buzzing through the air. Not the fat fluff of a bumblebee, but the sleek, aerodynamic shape of a honeybee. It didn’t matter, not to Nancy, but at least bumblebees were cute.
“It’s just a bee,” she said to Freya, while she sat perfectly still, reminding herself as she had done a thousand times before that a bee wouldn’t attack as long as it didn’t feel threatened. “Just a buzzy little bee that got lost on its way to a flower.”
Her heart lurched as the bee landed on Freya’s leg.
Stay still. Please, stay?—
The insect must have tickled the baby as it walked down her chubby thigh. One moment, Freya was perfectly, unbelievably still; the next, she was thrashing and giggling.
Nancy lunged, swiping with her hand, fully prepared to take the sting if it meant sparing Freya from the pain. She was too late, the bee curving its abdomen downward, no doubt panicking as much as Nancy was.
Swearing under her breath, she pulled her finger back and flicked the bee, her heart rate sky-high as she watched it sail across the floor. As soon as it hit the ground, it began to crawl away to find a quiet spot to die.
“I’m sorry,” Nancy gasped, anxiety turning her stomach into its very own tapestry of twisting knots and too-taut strings. “I’m sorry, Freya. I’m sorry, little bee.”
Guilt writhed in her veins as Freya let out the most pitiful cry. Guilt for the baby and the bee that had just given its life for nothing. But Nancy could only help one of them, and though shestill hadn’t gotten used to holding babies, she carefully scooped Freya up off her blanket, rose to her feet, and held the child close.
“You’re okay,” Nancy murmured, rocking the baby as she’d seen Isla do. “You’re okay. I know that was a nasty shock, but you’re okay.”
Maneuvering the child, she glanced down to check for the stinger, but it seemed to have fallen out. All that was left was a livid red spot.
“We’ll put some cream on that, shall we?” Nancy said, pausing as she tried to figure out how to pick up her bag and hold a baby at the same time.
She had just managed to hook the handle of the bag with her foot when she realized that Freya wasn’t crying anymore. Rather, it wasn’t the startled scream of a moment ago, but a horrible, gagging sound. And all across the child’s skin, nasty red hives were beginning to pop up. Meanwhile, one of her eyes was already swelling, as well as her bottom lip and the bottom half of her sweet, chubby cheeks.
“Oh my God,” Nancy choked out, as if she were the one who’d been stung. “Oh my God… no, no, no…”
Freya was allergic. Yet another thing they had in common.
Swearing colorfully, Nancy rushed the baby over to her crib and lay her down before sprinting back to fetch the bag she’d left on the floor. She scrambled for her Epi-Pen and recited the saying in her mind:Orange to the thigh, blue to the sky. She might have carried one always, but it had been a while since she’d actually had to use it.
Just as she was about to use the autoinjector, however, she paused. A horrible thought crept into her head. The epinephrine in the pen was enough for an adult, but Freya was a baby. How on earth could she reduce the dose?
It wasn’t like there was time to think. Freya’s gurgling sounds had become rasping breaths, her tiny face scrunched up as she struggled for breath.
“Not as long,” Nancy whispered.
With a desperate prayer to any ancient Scottish gods that were listening as well as the one she sometimes prayed to, she jabbed the Epi-Pen into Freya’s thigh and twisted to watch the medicine window. When around a third was gone, she swiftly removed the injector.
Shaking and still muttering a prayer under her breath, she rubbed the area.
It’s not enough. She needs a doctor. She needs a hospital. And I’m three hundred years away from being able to properly help her.
The epinephrine would open her airways and get her breathing again, but she needed aftercare and observation and?—
“I hate this place,” she hissed.
“What are ye doin’?” a low voice asked.
Her heart jumped violently as she whirled around to find Jack walking toward her. She hadn’t heard him approach.
“A bee came in,” she managed to croak, trembling. “It stung the baby. I was just trying to help. I...”
