Page 7 of A Taste of Miss Honey

He did not hear what she said in reply, falling into a fathomless darkness to which there seemed to be no end.

A pithy retort rose to Izzy’s lips, but she held it back, seeing his face relax into sleep. She did not wish to wake him after all he’d gone through. He looked younger in sleep, the strain that had been visible this night smoothed away. She fancied she could see the boy he’d once been, cheeky and mischievous she did not doubt, though she wished she knew for sure. There was so much about him she wished she knew. She realised she had made assumptions about her handsome smuggler, judging him upon a scanty few moments in his company. Though she wished it otherwise, she did not know this man, she could not trust him, no matter how much she wanted to. Oh, she wanted to.

She watched him sleep, watched his chest rise and fall, comforted by the steady rhythm. The lamplight caught the wiry hair on his chest, turning it copper and gold, casting his face, his beautiful face, into something rare and remarkable. A face like that ought to be stamped on a coin, rendered in marble and paint, recorded for generations to come and marvel at, for surely it’s like would never be seen again.

Izzy’s breath hitched as she realised she’d done it. She’d set out to save him and, God willing, save for infection or the disaster of discovery, she’d done it. A chill ran over her, reminding her it was damned cold in the attic, and she reached for the pile of blankets she’d stashed. Taking care not to wake him, she covered him up, not wanting him to catch a chill on top of all else. She still needed to put the poultice on the wound, but she had yet to make it. The knowledge made her limbs feel like lead, but she forced herself to move, making her weary way back to the kitchen.

She found the yarrow leaves she’d left soaking, poured off the liquid and tipped them into a pestle and mortar, then ground them hard to make a paste. The distinctive scent, grassy and sweet, was soothing to her tired senses. She wished she had fresh yarrow, which she suspected would be stronger. Certainly, the odour, herbal with a touch of camphor, was stronger than this, but in January there was nothing to be done. It was lucky she’d troubled to collect so much of it last summer, God willing there would be enough.

Satisfied she’d ground it sufficiently, Izzy spooned the paste onto a square of clean linen before carefully tidying up the still room. This was Mrs Mabbs’ domain, though she shared it happily with Izzy. She’d notice any unusual activity, however, and Izzy dared not leave a trail. Her father was nigh on omniscient, and it had taken her a lifetime to discover how to keep things from his notice, but a comment from Mrs Mabbs was all it would take to make him curious.

Moving like a sleepwalker, Izzy returned to the attic. On her way, she slipped into one of the guest bedrooms to find a chamber pot, belatedly realising that all his needs must be attended to, an awkward thought but not one she could ignore. She was so tired now that she barely noticed the creak of floorboards or bothered to jump when a fox cried somewhere in the front garden. Kneeling carefully beside Boreas, she lifted the blankets and pressed the poultice against the wound. He stirred in his sleep, grumbling softly, but did not wake. It was a tricky business getting a length of bandage underneath him to hold it in place, but she managed by slipping it under his feet and dragging it up under his body. The brandy had done a good job, it seemed, for he only huffed and snored softly, making her smile.

With care, she covered him up again and sat for a moment watching him sleep. His hair was long and so very fair. Hers was blonde, but a more usual gold colour, like ripe barley, his was like nothing she had seen before. Outside, in the dark, it had seemed almost silver, giving him a rather unearthly appearance, a fantasy rather than a flesh-and-blood man.

Except he was flesh and blood, and she knew that for certain now. This man who had haunted her dreams. Though she hardly knew how she dared, she reached out, pushing the hair from his face where it had fallen over his brow.

“Sweet dreams, Boreas.”

Her whispered words slipped into the darkness as Izzy took the lamp and tiptoed back to her own room.