Gregory nodded dumbly.
“No,” Hyacinth said, stepping forth to bar the door. “I have more questions.”
“I’m sorry,” the doctor said quietly. “I have no more answers.”
And even Hyacinth could not argue with that.
When morning came, bright and unfathomably cheery, Gregory woke in Lucy’s sickroom, still in the chair next to her bed. She was sleeping, but she was restless, making her usual sleepy sounds as she shifted position. And then, amazingly, she opened her eyes.
“Lucy?” Gregory clutched her hand, then had to force himself to loosen his grip.
“I’m thirsty,” she said weakly.
He nodded and rushed to get her a glass of water. “You had me so— I didn’t—” But he couldn’t say anything more. His voice broke into a thousand pieces, and all that came out was a wrenching sob. He froze, his back to her as he tried to regain his composure. His hand shook; the water splashed onto his sleeve.
He heard Lucy try to say his name, and he knew he had to get ahold of himself. She was the one who had nearly died; he did not get to collapse while she needed him.
He took a deep breath. Then another. “Here you are,” he said, trying to keep his voice bright as he turned around. He brought the glass to her, then immediately realized his mistake. She was too weak to hold the glass, much less push herself up into a sitting position.
He set it down on a nearby table, then put his arms around her in a gentle embrace so that he could help her up. “Let me just fix the pillows,” he murmured, shifting and fluffing until he was satisfied that she had adequate support. He held the glass to her lips and gave it the tiniest of tips. Lucy took a bit, then sat back, breathing hard from the effort of drinking.
Gregory watched her silently. He couldn’t imagine she’d gotten more than a few drops into her. “You should drink more,” he said.
She nodded, almost imperceptibly, then said, “In a moment.”
“Would it be easier with a spoon?”
She closed her eyes and gave another weak nod.
He looked around the room. Someone had brought him tea the night before and they hadn’t come to clean it up. Probably hadn’t wanted to disturb him. Gregory decided that expeditiousness was more important than cleanliness, and he plucked the spoon from the sugar dish. Then he thought—she could probably use a bit of sugar, so he brought the whole thing over.
“Here you are,” he murmured, giving her a spoonful of water. “Do you want some sugar, too?”
She nodded, and so he put a bit on her tongue.
“What happened?” she asked.
He stared at her in shock. “You don’t know?”
She blinked a few times. “Was I bleeding?”
“Quite a lot,” he choked out. He couldn’t possibly have elaborated. He didn’t want to describe the rush of blood he had witnessed. He didn’t want her to know, and to be honest, he wanted to forget.
Her brow wrinkled, and her head tipped to the side. After a few moments Gregory realized she was trying to look toward the foot of the bed.
“We cleaned it up,” he said, his lips finding a tiny smile. That was so like Lucy, making certain that all was in order.
She gave a little nod. Then she said, “I’m tired.”
“Dr. Jarvis said you will be weak for several months. I would imagine you will be confined to bed for some time.”
She let out a groan, but even this was a feeble sound. “I hate bed rest.”
He smiled. Lucy was a doer; she always had been. She liked to fix things, to make things, to make everyone happy. Inactivity just about killed her.
A bad metaphor. But still.
He leaned toward her with a stern expression. “You will stay in bed if I have to tie you down.”