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“Better,” Fiore admitted, though he couldn’t do so without a wince.
Concern clouded the affectionate gaze Enzo cast down upon him. “Can you stand?”
Fiore stared at him.
“You ought to walk around the room a little,” Enzo replied. For what it was worth, he at least sounded apologetic. “Not very far. Just a quick turn and straight back to bed.”
“What for?” Fiore asked, no less bewildered.
Enzo fixed him with a solemn look. “To keep your blood from clotting in your veins.”
“Oh.” Fiore supposed that was a sound enough reason. He struggled to raise himself up on his trembling arms.
No sooner had he begun than Enzo’s strong arm slipped beneath his shoulders and gently eased him upright.
“Steady,” he said as he lifted Fiore, his voice low and soft and sonorous. Fiore’s heart sang at the sound. Under the influence of such a voice he thought he could do anything.
Which was fortunate, because at that moment standing up and walking around felt almost impossible.
The brawn of Enzo’s arm at least kept his upper half vertical. Then he swung his legs out of the bed—or rather, Enzo delicately moved them so—and, with a bruising grip on Enzo’s shoulders, dared to stand. His thighs trembled. His knees threatened to buckle. But he was up and by leaning heavily against Enzo’s warm bulk, remained so.
Enzo took a step. Fiore hobbled alongside. One stride became two, then three, and while Fiore’s legs did little more than drag themselves into place, still Enzo seemed pleased. Soon, just as promised, they had gone in a circle ‘round the room to the portal window—which Fiore could hardly glance out of without feeling light-headed—and back again to bed. There Enzo laid him down again as gently as a feather falling into a nest.
Fiore’s ease proved short-lived, as Enzo’s next words were, “The chirurgeon would like to see you.” Something must have contorted in Fiore’s features at this announcement, for Enzo hastened to add, “Just for a moment. They want to listen to your heart and see that your fever no longer rages.”
“My fever?” Fiore echoed stupidly.
“You’ve been pyretic for the last day and a half.”
No wonder his very bones ached. A thought struck him. “Have you remained here all the while?”
Enzo hesitated. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Not in the least,” Fiore replied, honest but no less astonished.
His fingertips, of their own accord, made the barest reach towards Enzo. No sooner had they moved than Enzo’s hand clasped his own—a warm and secure grip which sent a balm over Fiore’s fluttering heart.
A wan smile reached Enzo’s eyes. “I’ll send for them, then. I’ll only be a moment,” he added, for Fiore’s hand twisted in the bedclothes the instant he released his hold.
Fiore forced himself to nod and smile.
Enzo seemed to understand his pain nonetheless and cast a sympathetic look back at him even as he went on to the door. He opened it the merest sliver. Fiore braced himself for the sight of a chirurgeon’s helm cast in shadow with its horrible glass eyes glinting. Instead he glimpsed the slender form of a woman clad in black livery; a more practical version of Enzo’s own garb, with the silks and satins replaced by wools and the silver filigree restrained to a single embroidered crest over her heart. Enzo muttered a few words to her. She gave a sharp nod and retreated into the shadows to vanish from sight altogether. Enzo shut the door.
“Who was that?” Fiore croaked as Enzo returned to him.
“Carlotta,” Enzo replied. When it became apparent this held no meaning for Fiore, he added, “My manservant.”
Fiore had suspected, or rather known, that Enzo held a certain rank. Still, it struck him to encounter one of his staff in the flesh and find proof of his status.
“The chirurgeon hasn’t wandered far,” Enzo continued. “It shouldn’t take her long to find them.”
Fiore knew he ought to take comfort in that. Instead his heart filled with dread at the thought of the chirurgeon’s return.
Enzo returned to his seat at Fiore’s bedside. “You should have something for the pain.”
Fiore braced himself for another injection. But instead of needle or bottle, Enzo brought out a small paper packet. He tipped it out and a small round white tablet fell into his hand. This he held up between thumb and forefinger for Fiore’s inspection.
“It’s much the same as what you got from the needle,” Enzo explained. “Distilled, dried, powdered, and compressed by an apothecary. It must be swallowed whole,” he added as he laid it in Fiore’s outstretched palm.
