"My head hurts," he said simply. "A lot."
His mother came to his bedside and tested his forehead with the inside of her wrist, then tested the hot-bag. "You're hotter than the compress; you've got a fever. There is something going around they tell me," she admitted with a slight frown. "Your teacher seems to think you should stay home for a few days and study on your own."
A few days? It was more of a reprieve than he had ever thought he would get! But if I look too eager, she might send me back tomorrow.
He closed his eyes as a jolt of pain lanced across his head from left to right. He certainly didn't have to feign that. "I'll try, Mother," he said truthfully. "If you think I should stay home—but if you don't want me to, I won't."
That must have been the right thing to say. "You must be sick," she said reluctantly. "All right; I'll have your meals brought up on a tray, and we'll keep you home for a while. There's no point in spreading whatever you've caught to the rest of the family." She pursed her lips as Lan looked up at her. "I'll send to the herbalist for something better than willow tea for your head. Meanwhile, you lie back down." He obeyed, meekly, and she felt his forehead with a surprisingly gentle expression on her face. "Lavan, you've been driving me to distraction since we moved to Haven, but I still love you. It's not been easy for the rest of us here in Haven either."
A pang of conscience penetrated the pain in his head. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, feeling ashamed.
"Just keep on with this school as you have been, and you won't have a reason to feel sorry anymore," she said, spoiling his moment of contrition, as she put the hot-bag back on his forehead.
Just keep on with the school—if the Tyrant will let me! he thought in despair, and the headache returned with a vengeance.
As aromas that should have been savory and only made him feel sick floated up from the kitchen, he fought down nausea and his pain.
When footsteps came up the stairs again, he thought it was the servant with the promised tray, and took off the hot-bag to send her away. But it wasn't; it was the maidservant all right, a vaguely pretty girl with a round face and red cheeks, but she had a bottle and spoon in one hand, and another hot-bag wrapped in a new towel dangling from the other.
"This is from the herbalist for you," the maid said, with a sympathetic smile, holding out the bottle and spoon. "Just take a spoonful; he says it's mortal strong." Lan was surprised and touched by the sympathy. Evidently, now that it was clear he wasn't making his illness up, the servants were less inclined to be critical of him.
She left the hot-bag beside him as he took the medicine from her, leaving him alone in the darkening room. After a moment of thought, he lit his candles at his fireplace, although bending over nearly made him pass out.
Strange. I don't remember anyone coming in to light the fire. It hadn't been lit when he came home, had it?
I—I must have forgotten, my head hurt so much. When the room was full of light, he stripped and got into his nightclothes and got properly into bed, just in case the medicine was as strong as it was supposed to be. He didn't have a great deal of faith in the promises of herbalists, but it might very well be powerful.
His skin felt tender again, that slightly-sunburned feeling. As he stretched out under the bedclothes with the new hot-bag on his head, he was glad he'd gotten out of his clothing. The wool trews had been itchy; the soft linen felt much better.
Downstairs, people were starting to arrive home, and the house hummed with conversation and activity. No one else came near him, though; he experienced the odd sensation of eavesdropping on his own family.
As if I were a ghost.
It was... interesting. The maid had left his door open, so he heard most of what was going on fairly clearly. No one seemed to notice his absence until dinner, when his mother's brief explanation brought an expression of detached sympathy from Sam, and an exclamation of "Don't let him get near me!" from his sister.
But it was just about then that the herbalist's remedy started to take effect, and Lan couldn't have cared if they had all voted to wrap him in a plague banner and chase him out of town.
It began with a dulling of the pain, followed by the oddest sensation of floating. The more the pain left, the more the euphoria took over. At some point, about midway through dinner downstairs, an irresistible tug toward sleep took over where the euphoria ended. He didn't even try to fight it.
When he woke, it was broad daylight, and the headache was still with him, although it wasn't nearly as bad as it had been last night. The hot-bag had slipped off his head and onto the floor during the night; he opened his eyes just long enough to tell that it was, indeed, morning. He thought about taking a second dose of medicine, but his stomach rumbled and that decided him against it. He wanted something to eat first; then he'd let the medicine knock him over.
He smelled the frying ham and bacon of breakfast cooking downstairs, and his stomach rumbled again, insistently. Should I get up and go downstairs? he wondered. But Mother wanted me to stay in bed so I wouldn't spread this to the rest of the family....
He didn't have to make that decision, for a bump at his door made him open his eyes again. The maid stood there with a tray; she grinned when she saw his eyes open. And now he finally remembered her name. Kelsie.
"Good mornin' sirrah," she said brightly. "I brung up some supper last night, but you couldn't have been budged with a team of horses!"
She brought over her tray and placed it on a stool next to his bed. He sat up, and managed a weak smile. "I guess that medicine was as strong as you said."
"They say he's Healer-trained, is Master Veth, so I suppose he knows his medicines." Kelsie dismissed the herbalist and his remedies with a shrug. "I brought a bell on the tray there; you need something, you ring it and I'll come up."
"Thank you," was all he had a chance to say. She just grinned again, and was gone. Then again, given the housekeeper's firm hand on the household reins, lingering might get her in trouble.
On the tray was typical invalid fare: tea and buttered toast, soft-boiled eggs. No ham, no bacon, no jam or jelly. He sighed, but tackled the food anyway. Hungry as he was, it all tasted good.
Only then did he take a second dose—slightly smaller this time—of the medicine, and it wasn't long before he was dreaming again.
This time he woke, it was some time in the afternoon, and his headache was measurably better, though still with him. More persistent was his hunger.
He rang the bell, and within moments, Kelsie was at his door with another tray, brown eyes dancing merrily at him from beneath her frilled cap. "Cook's figured you'd be ready for this," she said, putting it down beside him.
He eyed the contents. Bread and broth, more tea. "I am, but I could eat a whole loaf of bread, not just a couple of slices," he said ruefully. His stomach made an audible growl, and he blushed as she laughed.
"Well, the sayin' is to feed a fever, and you got a fever. You eat that up, I'll run down and tell Cook and see what she figures is good for you." She turned in a swirl of gray-and-cream woolen skirts and linen apron, and vanished, while he made short work of the invalid's lunch they'd given him.