Chapter Seventeen
I awake at dawn to the sound of the bedroom door swinging open with a clatter. Standing there in her nightdress and sleeping cap is Viscountess Bolingbroke, Faith by her side.
“She was out in the middle of the night,” Faith declares, like she’s proposing to burn me at the stake. “It was all so terribly improper. I had to let you know as soon as possible.”
I open my mouth to protest, but my throat is on fire. I’m shivering and sweaty all at once. My body aches from the inside out, as if something is bruising and breaking endlessly. I blink away the sleep from my eyes and find my vision blurry at the edges.
Viscountess Bolingbroke rushes to my side and places her cool hand on my forehead. “She’s sick with fever, Miss Fairchild. Fetch the doctor and your lady’s maid. I’m not sure what sort of prank you’re playing, accusing your visibly ill competition of impropriety, but the next time you lie, I may have to tell Her Majesty.”
Faith sputters, her face bright red with anger, then storms out of the room.
When I awake, it’s to Lottie dabbing a cool cloth on my forehead.
“Shh, miss, you’re all right.” She soothes me like I’m a child, and I let my eyes flutter shut.
“What happened?” I rasp. Light streams in from the windows, and I suspect I’ve been asleep for a very long time.
“You’re running a fever, darling. Just relax.”
My hands hurt the worst. They’re swollen and ugly, my knuckles too stiff to move.
When I awake again, it’s Greer who is standing over me. “They told me to make you drink,” she says, and tips a glass of cool water into my mouth.
Every swallow is agony.
The darkness is freezing as it swallows me whole.
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