“I…” She looked down at his hands.
He squeezed hers lightly then took the cloth back. “You have been a great help. If you will excuse me, I must check on the gardens. The temperature will be dropping now that the furnace is out, and our seeds will need water. Please eat some of the soup. The pain tablets are on the shelf above the stove. Take two then have a sleep. I will be back to check on you shortly.”
He scooped his shirt and jacket off the shelf then left. She could hear him moving through the kitchen, but he only stayed for a moment before the door clicked closed.
Clare let her head drop. She didn’t understand him. He hated his family—she could guess that much—but he refused to leave them. She didn’t know what he needed from her, or from himself, before he could feel free.
She blinked back angry tears as she carried the dish of water to the sink and tipped it out. The pot on the stove had stopped bubbling but was still warm when she touched the lid. She found a bowl, ladled out a portion, then sat at the table, but she couldn’t do much except stir her food. Clare knew she should feel hungry. She hadn’t eaten since the previous day’s lunch, but her stomach was in knots.
A fresh wind picked up outside the house. She hoped it wouldn’t start snowing again. Despite how vast the property was, it stifled her. It was strange to simultaneously feel claustrophobic and lonely.
She made herself eat the soup. Dorran wasn’t a bad cook. Even with limited ingredients, he seemed to have a knack for making their meals taste good. But she was starting to crave fresh food, especially something green. She hoped the garden would grow quickly.
Her legs ached from the hike, and the cuts on her arm refused to stop stinging. The bottle of painkillers waited on the shelf, like Dorran had said they would. She tried to read the label, but it had been handwritten in a script so faded, she couldn’t make it out. Dorran normally gave her two, but Beth’s cautious voice in the back of her head said it wasn’t wise to take drugs she didn’t know, especially if there was any chance they might be addictive. She compromised by tipping one tablet into her palm and washing it down with a mouthful of freezing water from the tap.
Dorran wanted her to rest, but despite how tired she felt, she didn’t think she could sleep. She stood in the kitchen, shoulders hunched, as she stared at her surroundings. She didn’t want to go back to her room. But she didn’t want to walk the halls aimlessly either. The wind was growing louder. She thought she could make out soft pattering noises through the brick walls. Snow? Sleet? Not more hail, I hope.
She shivered then glanced back at the pot of soup. Dorran hadn’t eaten any. She could take a bowl to him. If what she’d said had upset him, the food might work as a peace offering. And even if it didn’t, it would at least save him a trip back to the kitchen.
Clare checked that the liquid was still hot then poured out a large bowl, making sure to give him plenty of the meat. She dipped a spoon into the mixture then blew out the candle on the bench before leaving the kitchen.
She followed the path Dorran had led her down before, into the stone cathedral-like room that separated the main section of the house from the indoor garden. Bright, welcoming lights glowed through the garden’s blurred window. Clare thought she could see Dorran’s silhouette as he tended to the plants. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin as she started to cross to the door. Her breath caught as a noise startled her.
What was that? She stopped moving. Sudden dizziness cascaded through her, making her stumble. She blinked. A rushing sound filled her ears. She tried to take another step, but nothing felt right. Nothing felt real. The bowl tumbled out of her hands, but she was only vaguely aware of the noise it made as it broke on the stone floor.
Clare shook her head. The motion made the dizziness worse, and nausea accompanied it. Her vision was hazy, and her heart raced, but she couldn’t breathe deeply enough to get the oxygen her lungs needed. Pain moved through her stomach like a sharp, hot needle.
Light washed over her as the garden door opened. Dorran called to her, but she couldn’t answer. Her legs were shaking. She fell, but before she hit the floor, Dorran caught her.
“What’s wrong? What happened?” His hand moved over her forehead then her throat, checking her.
She tried to answer. The nausea became worse, clawing its way from her stomach to her throat, and she convulsed as she was sick over the floor.
Dorran dropped her. She couldn’t see him. The room was a swimming mess of colours and shadows. But she heard footsteps beating over the stone floor. Then a door slammed open. She hugged the ground. It refused to stop moving, tilting her over until she retched again. There was nothing left to bring up.
Then, without warning, Dorran was back. He skidded across the floor and came to a stop at her side. He flipped her over, keeping one hand under her head. The other plunged a needle into her chest.
Clare barely felt the sting. She couldn’t tell if she was suffocating or hyperventilating. She only knew she couldn’t breathe or stop shaking.
“Come on, Clare.” Another needle stabbed into her thigh. Then Dorran pulled her close against his chest. “Fight it. Please. Fight for me.”
She tried to speak. Her muscles spasmed, wrenching her head back and making her torso twist until it was painful.
Dorran didn’t let her go. He pulled her closer as he began moaning under his breath. “Please. Please. Come on, Clare. Please.”
She convulsed again. Stark, bleak fear wrapped around her. She tried to hold Dorran, the only real, solid thing in her world, but her hands wouldn’t work. Her mouth was open, but no air reached her lungs.
He cradled her, one arm holding her up, the other running over her hair and her cheek. “Clare. Don’t leave me. Please.”
Darkness seeped around her, dragging her down, drowning her until she couldn’t even hear the ringing in her ears.
Chapter Sixteen
The bed was warm. The blankets were soft. The inside of Clare’s chest ached, and her head throbbed. Between the fog of sleep and the pain of wakefulness, though, she was grateful that at least she wasn’t cold.
Every part of her felt heavy, especially her eyelids. She left them closed and instead focussed on the sounds and sensations around her. She heard a fire crackling. Wind whistled in the distance as it clawed its way through broken roof tiles and narrow gaps in the stone.
She lay on her side. One hand was tucked under the blankets, but the other was left out. It wasn’t cold, though. Warm fingers rested over it. A thumb brushed across her knuckles. She squeezed lightly in response.
She heard an intake of breath, then Dorran’s voice. “Clare?”
“Hi.” The word came out slurred. She forced her eyes to open and blinked through the blur.
Dorran sat next to her. He looked ghastly. His normal skin colour had been replaced by an ashen grey, and dark circles ringed tired eyes. He shuffled forwards in his chair and bent closer. A cautious smile grew. “How are you feeling?”
“Great,” she lied. She felt like death. If she hadn’t seen the barely hidden panic in Dorran’s eyes, she would have let herself fall back asleep. “What happened?”
He turned aside, and his expression twitched, but only for a second. When he turned back to her, his face was calm again. “You were sick. You ate something bad.”