A week later,I hadn’t died.
After resting, drinking gallons of sweet tea, and eating rare steaks, the pain in my neck was almost gone, and Dr. Fletcher was certain I was on the mend. My head didn’t spin anymore,and the wounds were two red dots no bigger than pinheads. Whatever had caused the blood loss wasn’t going to kill me. But weakness plagued me.
Papa sent for Dr. Fletcher every other day. Jones drove everyone mad, checking every five minutes that no servants showed any strange symptoms. And I wasn’t allowed any visitors. Not that anyone came. Darius hadn’t brought me news. Alex was likely dead, and I hadn’t done anything to help him.
“What happened to Alex?” I drank my third cup of morning tea as Papa kept me company in my bedroom.
“You needn’t worry about him. The doctors and nurses at the hospital will take good care of him.”
“Can’t you send someone to ask about him? I’m worried.”
The change in his expression was immediate. “Darling, I don’t want to risk one of my servants’ health by sending them to the fever hospital, and the fact we haven’t talked about what you did, sneaking out of the house to see him, doesn’t mean I’m not angry.”
It was best not to insist.
For a week, I’d skimmed the newspapers, searching for any clues about the fate of the sick people, but they didn’t report anything useful about the outbreak.
Papa hadn’t let me out of my bedroom, and the housekeeper had enforced a strict routine about hygiene and precautions. I had to wash my hands every time I touched anything, and only overcooked vegetables were served.
None of our neighbours caught the fever, yet Papa lived in terror I might die. My Season had been postponed to the next year, and I didn’t mind.
I opened my window and let the fresh air in. The trees in Hyde Park grew pale green leaves. Ladies donned lighter gowns and twirled their parasols. No one was in a panic.
Dusk dropped over London like a velvet blanket. I’d left the curtains drawn, and the moonlight poured through the window, casting the shadow of a tree on the wall. It looked like a gnarled hand trying to grab me.
A strong tug pulled at my chest as if a rope were tied around me and someone yanked it.
I pushed aside the cover and walked to the window, following the tug. The floor chilled my bare feet.
Clouds veiled the moon. The wind howled, and rain pelted the cobbles.
A carriage passed by. A cab followed. Nothing odd. Except for a tall, broad man standing below my window. He stood in the pouring rain, seemingly not caring about getting soaked.
When he gazed up, the tug jerked me towards him. My power wasn’t back yet, but maybe the tug meant it wanted to come out.
The man stared at me, and uneasiness slithered down my spine. There was something…unnatural about him. I turned away from the window as my head spun. When I faced the street again, the man was gone.
Only a faint throb in my chest remained.
13
UNDER THE SYCAMORE
Alex
I’d changed. Physically, mentally, and spiritually.
The fever hadn’t killed me. I’d thought I was going to die of pain, but one night, I’d woken up strong and very much different. I was broader, stronger, faster, and a good foot taller than before.
Some changes had been for the better, like my new, strong and healthy body. But others were for the worse, like my obsession with blood. Other changes were surprising, like my friend Darius being a wizard.
He’d searched for me in the fever hospital and told me what had happened to me, but I’d struggled to understand it.
When one had an insane obsession with blood and could barely think about anything else other than biting people, focusing on other subjects was difficult.
On the top of a hill in… I couldn’t remember, I was sitting on the grass under a sycamore tree that had to be centuries old,judging by its massive trunk and flaky bark. If the sycamore could talk, it would laugh at my problems.
The moonlight glinted off the pools a storm had left behind. This town was different. The air was fresher—no more stink of coal and horse dung—and the scent of wet soil and wildflowers clung to my clothes.
