They reached the courtyard before she had decided whether to speak first, and Moira came out almost at a run.
The sight drove every thought out of her mind.
Moira’s cap sat crooked, and one sleeve had been rolled higher than the other. Her face had the strained pallor of a woman holding herself together by habit.
“Me Lady,” Moira called. “Thank God ye are back.”
Violet’s hand tightened on the reins. “Moira?”
“It is John.” Moira stopped near the horse, panting. “He willnae take his milk.”
Violet was out of the saddle before Connor reached for her. Her legs protested when her feet hit the ground, but she ignored them.
“Since when?”
“This morning. He fussed at first, then cried, then turned from it.” Moira’s hands twisted in her apron. “I thought perhaps he was only restless, but he is warm. Too warm.”
Violet was already moving.
The courtyard blurred at the edges as she crossed it too fast. Connor followed, his boots hard on the stone behind her, but she did not turn.
The stairs to the nursery seemed longer than usual. She gripped the rail once, only long enough to steady herself, then climbed up. John’s cries met her before she reached the door.
They were weaker than his usual indignant wails, and that ratcheted up her fear. The untouched milk sat near the cradle. Moira had left it covered with a cloth, careful even in fear.
John lay wrapped too tightly, his small face red and his mouth working as if he wanted to complain and had lost the strength to do it properly.
Violet went to him at once. She touched his forehead first, then the back of his neck.
Too warm.
His little hands were hot when she freed them from the blanket. She slipped two fingers beneath the cloth at his belly and checked the heat there, then looked at his mouth.
“How long since he nursed?” she asked.
Moira stood close, wringing one cloth between both hands. “Since before dawn. He nursed a little then. Hardly enough.”
“Has he wet his nappy?”
“Aye, but less than usual.”
Violet lifted John carefully. He whimpered, then turned his face into her bodice. The weak little motion struck her harder than his cries.
“Send for the healer,” Violet ordered.
A maid near the door stared at her.
“Now,” Violet snapped.
The maid jolted and scurried away.
John writhed against her, his skin too hot through the thin linen of his shift. Violet loosened the blanket and kept her voice low.
“I ken, little one. I ken. I would be cross too if everyone stood about making poor decisions before breakfast.”
Moira made a soft sound that might have been a laugh if fear had allowed it. Her fingers kept folding and refolding the same cloth.
Violet looked at her. “Moira, please get some warm water. Nae hot, but warm. Clean cloths as well.”
