“Good.”
I brushed a curl from her face and gently kissed her forehead.
Bianca was easier to get upstairs. She walked under her own power but leaned a bit against the wall when she thought no one noticed. She got into bed and tucked the plague book next to her pillow, though I had forbidden reading anything involving mortality until morning.
“I’m not scared,” she said, which meant she absolutely was.
“Of course not.”
“I just like knowing what things are.”
“I know.”
She looked at me, and it was easy to forget how small she was, how young, when she was so intelligent. “Is it okay that I even like knowing about the bad things?”
“Of course,” I said. “But only when knowing helps you live better. Not when knowing becomes another way to hurt yourself.”
Her eyes dropped to the blanket. I left before she had to answer.
CJ tried to pretend he was perfectly well until he reached the landing, so I offered him my arm, which he took without comment.
He slid the pad and pencil under his pillow.
“Remember,” I said while pulling the blanket up, “small sips if you wake thirsty.”
“I know.”
“And ring the bell if you need anything.”
“I know.”
“And if the story becomes difficult, leave it alone until morning.”
His gaze flicked toward mine. “How did you know?”
“I went to school and did my homework.”
He smiled sleepily.
“Rest.”
I’d placed each bell within reach of the beds, made sure there was water on their nightstands, a bucket on the floor just in case. I’d also put one honey candy, should they wake up feeling queasy but not enough to vomit.
As I stepped into the hall, Conrad made his rounds to say goodnight to his children. He moved from room to room with aching tenderness. A kiss on Billie’s curls. A hand on Bianca’s forehead. A murmured exchange with CJ that I didn’t listen to because it wasn’t mine to hear. It was all strangely intimate; I had no right to witness it, yet I couldn’t bring myself to leave.
It was painfully easy, standing there in the dim hallway, to pretend I was ordinary. That these were my children. That the man moving quietly between bedrooms was someone whose tired smiles belonged to me. That I might go downstairs after this and wash cups in the dim kitchen light, then sit beside him while rainwater slid down the windows and everyone slept.
It was easy because once, very long ago, I had wanted a life exactly like this. Nothing grand—just a home with children safely in their beds and someone beside me who knew which floorboard creaked.
Conrad emerged from CJ’s room and closed the door softly. His gaze found mine, and for a moment, neither of us spoke. His hairwas still mussed from illness, his face pale, his eyes tired. He looked entirely human. Entirely breakable.
“You should sleep,” I said finally.
“So should you.”
“I’ll stay awake a bit longer.”
“Of course you will.”
