Dragon Rose(51)

Sar bustled about, putting away the clothing I had dropped across a chair, placing my boots on the floor of the wardrobe, even condescending to straighten the brushes and little jars of pigment I’d left sitting on my worktable. I thanked the goddess I’d retained enough presence of mind to hide the portrait of the stranger where it could not be easily spotted. I did not wish to have that conversation this evening…or ever, if possible.

Luckily, enough of the scent of linseed oil hung about my workspace that Sar had no wish to linger there, or perhaps it was just that I had finished all of my supper, giving her an excuse to return to me. Whatever the case, she stepped back toward the bed and retrieved the empty tray.

“Very good, my lady. It is probably best if you sleep some more, to regain your strength.”

“I’ve already slept the day through,” I protested.

“True enough, but rest is the best thing when you’re not feeling well.”

I supposed so; I hadn’t been ill enough in my short life to know for sure. We Menyon girls had always been a robust lot, soldiering on when most of our acquaintances sniffled and coughed their way through the long winter season. At any rate, this hadn’t been that sort of illness.

Assuming it had been an illness at all. If I were the sort to find drama in everyday occurrences, I would have said it was simply the sting of Theran’s cold words, followed by that gruesome discovery. Such things might be enough to send some girls to their beds. I’d never been the sort to suffer the megrims…and besides, my mother wouldn’t have allowed such a thing for even two minutes.

Curiously, though, I found I was weary after eating, and probably could sleep again. So I said, knowing it would make Sar happy, “I do think I will shut my eyes for a while.”

“Very good.”

I did close my eyes, but not all the way, watching her through my lashes as she set the tray down on my bedside table for a moment so she could move the bowl and cup closer to the center where they’d be less likely to fall. Her expression was more troubled than I would have expected, given that I had done as she wished, and promised to sleep some more. She shot me a troubled little frown, her forehead puckering, before she shook her head and picked up the tray, then went out.

She hadn’t shut the door to my bedchamber, most likely so the heat from the hearth in the other room could penetrate to where I slept. I found myself wanting to dream, but as sleep overtook me this time, it was deep and black, depthless as the ocean, taking me with it.





And so it went. I slept that night, and the day after, and the next night, rousing myself only to take a little food and attend to such necessities of hygiene as were required. Sar did manage to coax me into a hot bath the morning of the third day, and braided my hair herself as I tried not to let my face crack from yawning. It seemed I could not get enough sleep, no matter what I did. The line of worry between Sar’s brows only appeared to deepen as time passed, and I wished I had the strength to tell her I was fine. Somehow I lacked even that motivation, however.

That evening came a diffident knock at the door to my bedchamber. I rolled over in bed, blinking. How long had I been asleep this time? It seemed only a few hours had gone by since Sar last checked in on me.

“Yes?” I managed, pushing myself up against the pillows.

“Rhianne.”

His voice, but hesitant, as if I were the master here, not he.

Oh, good gods. I knew I must look a mess, my disarray something that could not be cured by a hurried primping. Still, I reached up to run my fingers through my hair and arrange it more or less neatly over my shoulders. The covers I pulled up more tightly about myself, although truly the heavy linen of my sleep chemise revealed very little.

“Come in,” I said. My own voice sounded rusty and dry. I should have poured myself some water before asking him to enter.

Too late, though, as immediately the door to my bedchamber opened and he stepped through. So many days had passed since I’d last seen him that his height and the sweep of his dark robes startled me a little. My breath caught, and I looked down at my hands where they were knotted in my lap.

“Sar said you have been sleeping a great deal,” he said. Although the words were calm enough, I thought I caught an edge of tension to his tone. “Perhaps it is time I called in a physician to see you.”

“Oh, no,” I replied at once. “Surely that isn’t necessary.”

“You are not ill after all?”

“No—I, well, that is, I was. Or I think I was.” How on earth could I describe the lassitude that had overtaken me, the utter weariness which had no connection to any actual exertion? “But I think I am getting better.”

“I am glad to hear that.”

Surprising myself, I asked, “Are you?”

The hood turned toward me. “Of course I am. Do you think it pleases me that you have been ill?”

“No, of course not.” I found myself ashamed of the implication in my previous words. Then it came out in a rush, perhaps driven by the days I had spent not knowing if he were angry with me, “Only that I thought you were displeased with me, and perhaps if I had angered you, then you would not be as bothered by my being ill.”

“Oh, no.” He moved toward me and reached out with one gloved hand, as if to touch my arm where it lay on top of the coverlet. As always, though, something stopped him, and he paused, irresolute. “I have been very worried about you.”