bed, thankful for the few candles still flickering in their sconces.
She lowered herself onto the edge of the feather mattress and slid a trembling hand up the length of her father’s arm, hidden beneath the sleeve of his nightshirt. His arm was bound with linen that had been soaked in narcissus water to assist in healing his lesions.
Victoria swallowed and eyed the linen strips covering his face. “Maladie de Bayle,” the physicians had grimly announced, upon her father’s insistence that she finally know the truth about his illness. Syphilis. It was a secret her father had kept in unspoken shame for years after he had contracted it from a less than reputable establishment.
No amount of arsenic, mercury, guaiac, or jars or tins with salves and powders concocted by quacks could save him now. All she could do was make life bearable for him over these next few months until his body could no longer fight the inevitable.
The earl’s roughened hand grabbed hers, causing her heart to skitter. His bandaged face jerked toward her. “Where is he?”
“Who?” she whispered.
Dark green eyes squinted up at her from beneath the layers of bandages covering everything but his eyes and lips. “Victor. Where is he? I must speak to him. Bring him to me, so I may tell him I am dying.”
Tears burned her eyes as she shakily clasped his hand with both of hers. The physicians had warned her of this. Delusions were but the beginning of what she could expect over these next few months.
She swallowed, trying not to envision her brother’s playful, bright jade eyes. “Victor isn’t here. He…died. But I am here and will continue to be. I vow.”
“No. No, no, no. My son is not dead.” The earl shoved her hands away and fumbled with the linens around him. “Where is he? Why is he not at my side? And who are you? What do you want?”
Victoria bit back a sob and shook her head. “I am your daughter. Papa, ’tis me. Victoria. Surely you recognize me?”
He squinted up at her, his chest heaving. His brows creased. He shook his head and rasped, “No. Leave.”
Tears stung her eyes and tumbled forth, trickling down her cheeks. She tried to keep her body from trembling as she lowered her lips to her father’s hands and kissed them. “Do not send me away,” she begged. “Please.” She clung to his hand, wishing they could both somehow return to the way things used to be. When she, Mama, Victor and he had all been a family.
Hesitant fingers touched her pinned hair and fingered it. “Victor has your hair,” he murmured in awe. “Flaxen. How very odd. Why do you have his hair?”
“Victor and I were twins,” she whispered. “Surely you remember me, Papa. I am your Victoria.”
He shook his head against the pillows. “No. No, your hair is too long. You are not my Victor. Tell him I will not see anyone but him. Tell him. Now go. Be of use and find him.” He pushed her hands away and shifted against the pillows.
Victoria released another quiet sob and blindly smoothed out the linens around him. Once he died, there would be nothing left of her or her heart. Fortunately, the physicians had assured her he still had at least another six to eight months within him.
The ruby-and-gold ring on her finger glinted within the candlelight. She lifted it to her lips and whispered against the polished ruby the same words she had whispered to it these past many weeks: “Cure him. Please. He does not deserve this. He doesn’t.”
Though she had long since lost faith in the ring’s ability to grant wishes, what else did she have left to believe in? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
All grew quiet and her father’s sleepy, heavy breaths filled the room. Flint, who had been loitering beside the bed, veered back toward the chair by the hearth and hopped onto it. After turning a few times, he settled himself against the cushion and laid his furry head against his paws. He huffed out an exhausted breath through his nostrils and blinked
She lowered herself onto the edge of the feather mattress and slid a trembling hand up the length of her father’s arm, hidden beneath the sleeve of his nightshirt. His arm was bound with linen that had been soaked in narcissus water to assist in healing his lesions.
Victoria swallowed and eyed the linen strips covering his face. “Maladie de Bayle,” the physicians had grimly announced, upon her father’s insistence that she finally know the truth about his illness. Syphilis. It was a secret her father had kept in unspoken shame for years after he had contracted it from a less than reputable establishment.
No amount of arsenic, mercury, guaiac, or jars or tins with salves and powders concocted by quacks could save him now. All she could do was make life bearable for him over these next few months until his body could no longer fight the inevitable.
The earl’s roughened hand grabbed hers, causing her heart to skitter. His bandaged face jerked toward her. “Where is he?”
“Who?” she whispered.
Dark green eyes squinted up at her from beneath the layers of bandages covering everything but his eyes and lips. “Victor. Where is he? I must speak to him. Bring him to me, so I may tell him I am dying.”
Tears burned her eyes as she shakily clasped his hand with both of hers. The physicians had warned her of this. Delusions were but the beginning of what she could expect over these next few months.
She swallowed, trying not to envision her brother’s playful, bright jade eyes. “Victor isn’t here. He…died. But I am here and will continue to be. I vow.”
“No. No, no, no. My son is not dead.” The earl shoved her hands away and fumbled with the linens around him. “Where is he? Why is he not at my side? And who are you? What do you want?”
Victoria bit back a sob and shook her head. “I am your daughter. Papa, ’tis me. Victoria. Surely you recognize me?”
He squinted up at her, his chest heaving. His brows creased. He shook his head and rasped, “No. Leave.”
Tears stung her eyes and tumbled forth, trickling down her cheeks. She tried to keep her body from trembling as she lowered her lips to her father’s hands and kissed them. “Do not send me away,” she begged. “Please.” She clung to his hand, wishing they could both somehow return to the way things used to be. When she, Mama, Victor and he had all been a family.
Hesitant fingers touched her pinned hair and fingered it. “Victor has your hair,” he murmured in awe. “Flaxen. How very odd. Why do you have his hair?”
“Victor and I were twins,” she whispered. “Surely you remember me, Papa. I am your Victoria.”
He shook his head against the pillows. “No. No, your hair is too long. You are not my Victor. Tell him I will not see anyone but him. Tell him. Now go. Be of use and find him.” He pushed her hands away and shifted against the pillows.
Victoria released another quiet sob and blindly smoothed out the linens around him. Once he died, there would be nothing left of her or her heart. Fortunately, the physicians had assured her he still had at least another six to eight months within him.
The ruby-and-gold ring on her finger glinted within the candlelight. She lifted it to her lips and whispered against the polished ruby the same words she had whispered to it these past many weeks: “Cure him. Please. He does not deserve this. He doesn’t.”
Though she had long since lost faith in the ring’s ability to grant wishes, what else did she have left to believe in? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
All grew quiet and her father’s sleepy, heavy breaths filled the room. Flint, who had been loitering beside the bed, veered back toward the chair by the hearth and hopped onto it. After turning a few times, he settled himself against the cushion and laid his furry head against his paws. He huffed out an exhausted breath through his nostrils and blinked
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