The two who remained were silent for a long time. An expiring log crackled, softly and delicately, in the fireplace.
Finally, Toria smiled with obvious effort. “Your shirt is too small.”
Egert had borrowed the shirt from Fox because his own clothing was in need of washing. Gaetan’s shirt threatened to rip with every movement Egert made. His hair, freshly washed and not yet fully dry, seemed darker than usual. The light from the fireplace gleamed directly behind his back, and Toria’s burning fever created the illusion that Egert had bronzed shoulders.
Bending over her, he repeated the same questions several times; concentrating, she finally understood. “How can I help you? What do you need me to do?”
Even after they returned from the dank, raw night, she could not stop crying for a long time. She had radiated tears; she had drowned in their salty water like a dying sailor in the bosom of the sea. Egert, who had experienced a far greater shock that evening, held up better. He carried the shivering Toria for the last block before the university: her legs failed her and no longer desired to work. In her whole life only her father had ever carried her, and only in her remote childhood. She quieted and went limp, not helping Egert support her weight, but he stepped lightly as if he really were carrying a child or a small animal, as light as a feather, that had come to grief.
As he carried her, he felt each strained nerve, each quivering muscle, the beating of her heart, her fatigue and her distress. Then he pressed her more firmly to himself; he wanted to enfold her, to swath her in his own tenderness, to shelter, to warm, to protect.
The encounter with the dean, of which he was so afraid, passed without a single word. Submitting to Luayan, Egert helped Toria get into bed; a wailing old serving woman already waited nearby. The dean intently examined the guilt-ridden, tense Egert, but he never opened his mouth.
An ember prowled about the coals in the fireplace. Toria smiled faintly. The worst was far, far behind her; her present health, feverish and weakened, did not oppress her. On the contrary, she wished to dwell forever in this burning cloud, relishing her own frailty, serenity, and security.
“Tor. What can I do to help?”
Egert’s concern and anxiety pleased her. But her father … her father was always aware of everything.
The potion prepared by the dean steamed on the bedside table.
“It’s not all that serious,” whispered Toria, softly squeezing Egert’s hand. “There’s nothing to worry about. The medicine will help.”
He withdrew for a second to stoke the fireplace. The light flared up more brightly, and it seemed to Toria that Egert was now surrounded by copper tongues.
Laboriously, she sat up in her bed, holding the coverlet to her chest. “Give me the flask.”
Scooping the potion from his hands, she kneaded it into her temples for quite a long time. Soon she no longer had the strength to continue, but she did not think to summon the elderly nurse. Seeing that she was wearied, Egert offered yet again to help. Cautiously, overcoming his clumsiness, he proceeded to rub the ointment into the skin of her face and neck. The medicine smelled even more strong and bitter than wormwood warmed by the sun.
Her fever fell almost instantaneously, but instead of relief she again felt grief, and covered in sweat, she at first gave a short sob, then losing control over herself, she commenced to shake violently as tears streamed down her face.
Egert was at a loss. He considered running for the dean, but he could not release her quaking, moist hands. Egert leaned over the invalid, and his dry lips found first one tear-filled eye and then the other. Savoring the bitter taste in his mouth, he smoothed her disheveled, dark hair and drew his cheek against her cheek, scraping his scar along her skin. “Tor, look at me. Don’t cry.”
The fireplace burned evenly, and the warm potion smoked, having not yet cooled off completely. Murmuring something vague, tender, and soothing, Egert fondly stroked her neck, tracing the pattern of beauty marks with his finger, that memorable constellation that decorated the heavens of his disastrous dreams. Then he began to rub the ointment into her shoulders and slender arms, freed one after the other from beneath the coverlet. The room was warm, even sultry. Toria’s shaking gradually subsided, and she sobbed less frequently. Her breast, damp from sweat, still heaved under her thin chemise, forcing air in her lungs.
“Thank Heaven,” he whispered, feeling the sickly trembling leave her. “Thank Heaven. Everything will be all right. You really are better, aren’t you?”
Toria’s eyes seemed impenetrably black; her pupils were wide, like an animal’s at night. She stared at Egert, and her hands convulsively clenched the ends of the pulled-down coverlet. The fire burned down. It needed to be stoked again, but Egert did not have the will to leave her, not even for a second. It became dusky in the little room. Shadows danced, scattering ruddy light along the walls. Toria let out a lengthy sob and drew Egert to herself.
They curled into each other. Egert inhaled the bitter, unexpectedly pleasant odor of the medicine and held her lightly, fearing to squeeze her shoulders too intensely and thus inflict pain. Toria, blithely closing her eyes, nestled her nose into his shoulder. The fireplace died out and the darkness deepened.
Then his hand, tormented by its own audacity, reached under her chemise to her feverish breast, quaking from the beating of her heart.
It seemed to Toria that she was lying at the bottom of a reddish black, incandescent sea, and that tongues of flame were dancing over her head. She lost herself in the flames, refusing to think about anything else, and she ceased struggling against her mounting dizziness. Egert’s hand was transformed into a distinct living creature, which roamed along her body, and Toria experienced an ardent gratitude toward this affectionate creature, completely her own.
They dissolved into each other in a dreamy delirium. As they lay in the darkness, Egert realized suddenly that, even though he was a highly experienced lover, not once in his riotous youth had he experienced any feelings that even vaguely resembled this urgent desire to touch, to give warmth, to envelop.
The coverlet slipped off toward the wall. The gossamer fabric of her chemise became superfluous; Egert sheltered Toria from the outside world with his own body.
She abruptly awoke from her fantastic euphoria. Her physical relations with Dinar had gone no further than a few prudent kisses. Recognizing what was happening, she became frightened and froze under Egert’s caresses.
Instantly perceiving this, Egert pressed his lips to her ear. “What?”
She did not know how to explain. Distressed at her awkwardness, she artlessly ran her hand over his face. “I…”
He waited, gently placing her head on his shoulder. Fearing to insult him or surprise him, she could not find the words. She felt bashful and out of place.
Then, guessing what troubled her, he embraced her as firmly and as tenderly as he had never before embraced her or anyone else. Still full of fear and apprehension, she sobbed, grateful that there was no need to explain.
“Tor,” he whispered soothingly. “You’re afraid, aren’t you?”
She was indeed afraid. The night floated through the room, warmth radiated from the just-extinguished fireplace, and from Toria’s soul radiated a fondness and an almost childlike gratitude toward the man who understood everything without words.
He drew her to himself tenderly. “Don’t worry. Everything will be just as you wish, just as you say. Tor, what is it, why are you crying again?”
She suddenly recalled a dragonfly that had flown into her room when she was a child. Heavy and green, with dark eyes like round teardrops, it had rustled in the corner, chafing against the wall with its lacy wings. It flew up to the ceiling and fell almost to the very floor. “Beyond stupid,” her mother said with a laugh. “Catch it and let it loose outside.”