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“You arenotat death’s door,” she insisted, “and you arenotcharming me.”
“As you can lie, you really ought to be humouring me, sick as I am—”
“If you have the strength to joke, you have the strength to do this yourself.”
“ButJules,you have to let me tease. Who knows how long I have left in this world?”
“I know if you don’t stop this, I’ll run you through myself.”
He groaned into his pillow. “You really are the worst nurse.”
“And you’re a terrible patient.” She put her hand against his forehead. “You’re not radiating heat anymore, though. That’s got to be good.”
Her hand lingered, and his flushness returned in full force. For one ridiculous, delirious second, he felt he’d endure that awful first night all over again if she’d just keep her hand there.
Clearly this fever was affecting his brain.
There was a knock at the door, and in walked the castle herbalist, masked and gloved and smelling of enchantments. She conducted a few routine tests, tutted at the state of the sodden sheets with a harsh look at Jules (which irked Hawthorn a great deal, although he wasn’t sure why, as she had clearly done a terrible job and deserved to be reprimanded) and applied a few remedies. She was a lot softer than Juliana, and yet he wished that she’d been the one assisting.
Or that she’d volunteered too.
You are just a job to her,he reminded himself.A burden. Like you are to everyone. She can’t wait to get out of here.
And yet, aside from that first night, she never left. If she snuck out while he was sleeping, she was always there by the time he awoke. Surely, no one had ordered her to stay with him during hisentirequarantine. His mother was a fair mistress; rest was mandatory.
Of all the things that helped, knowing he wasn’t alone helped the most.
KnowingJuleswas there helped the most.
He woke one afternoon from a nap to find Juliana in her usual spot by the window, curled up reading a book, a curious, unnatural look resting on her face. It took him a while to realise what it was.
“Are you smiling?” He frowned.
“No.”
“Liar. You’re smiling. At abook.”
“It’s a darn sight nicer than your face.”
“Rude.” He lay back against the pillows. “Have you a pen and paper to hand? I wish to make a note of this occasion. The fourth time Juliana Ardencourt has ever smiled.”
“I have smiled more often than four times.”
“Not around me, you haven’t.”
“Strange, that.” She turned the page in her book, still ignoring his gaze. “I don’t often get the chance to read,” she admitted. “It’s quite fun.”
“What’s happening in the book?”
“Oh, nothing that would interest you, I’m sure.”
“Why? Some sordid romance?”
Juliana remained silent.
“Is it?” he asked, his interest piqued.
“There may be… some romance in it.”
