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I'm unprepared for the picture waiting for me.
Helyn has dragged a fur rug to a burning oversized fireplace that’s never been lit in the fifteen years of my occupancy. She lies on the floor at the hearth, cocooned in two thick blankets she must have taken from her bed and surrounded by a dozen books. Her head's propped up on top of two large leather volumes, and she reads, eyes half closed.
"What in the seven hells are you doing?"
"Zale." She sits up, hooded eyes unfocused as she looks up to me.
"Didn't your ladies tell you it was dinner time?" I frown.
"They did. Don't trouble yourself on my account, I had some soup brought up earlier…" She frowns, as though trying to remember how much earlier.
By the heavens, this woman shouldn't be trusted to take care of her basic needs. "You need to eat. And sleep on a bed, not on the hard floor!"
She waves a dismissive hand. "My room is freezing. And you have the most fascinating collection. I've never heard of half of the books here—private, limited editions, handwritten accounts."
"Why didn't you tell your maids you'd like to have a fire lit in your room?"
She grimaces. "Why inconvenience them? I'm perfectly comfortable here."
I blow out a slow breath. "Helyn, you're the stepdaughter of a duke and the first lady of Ravelyn. If you're cold, you say so. Understood?"
"You're unnecessarily bossy. But I like your library." It's only when she chuckles that I think to check her temperature.
I move to her side and press my hand to her forehead. She's always warm to me, but the burning skin, and the fact that she let me examine her without a word of protest, settles matters. "You're running a fever."
"I'm fine," she scoffs.
I sigh, bend to her and take her by the knees and back. I lift her and carry her out of the room, calling, "I need a healer." There always are eyes and ears listening around me, discreet as they might make themselves. "And send someone to light a fire."
The closest footman rushes through the halls. "Where, my lord?"
I consider the question. "Everywhere. At least one per floor, and all of the fireplaces in Helyn's quarters."
It never occurred to me that the temperature I keep my house at through the year by ways of spells would be harmful to her, though it should have. She's no coldblood. She's no demi at all. This state she's in proves it like nothing else could. Variances in temperatures might make one of us more or less comfortable, but the weather can't make us sick.
"Why are you making such a fuss?" she moans.
I lower her to her bed, brushing a strand of copper curls off her wet forehead. "Because you look like death, Helyn, that's why."
"Hel," she replies. At first, I think she's cursing, but she adds, "Everyone calls me Hel."
"Hel."
No insult or praise I could have come up with suits her better.
The two coldblood maids are still building a fire up when Koll comes in, escorting a witch.
"She needs to be seen right away." I don't like the rising panic in my chest.
The tanned lady in a light sundress comes closer, and sits close by.
She checks her temperature and smiles at me. "Nothing alarming."
I didn't realize how tense I was until I finally exhale.
"Have you eaten today, sweet pea?" the witch asks Helyn—Hel.
She frowns. "I wasn't too hungry. Nissa brought me soup, I think."
