He wondered how long she’d been sitting there. She couldn’t possibly be comfortable.
But he shouldn’t bother her. She surely needed her sleep.
He tried to push himself up into a sitting position but found he was too weak to manage more than a few inches. Still, he could see a little better, maybe even reach across Honoria to the glass of water on the table.
Or maybe not. He lifted his arm about half a foot before it fell back to his side. Damn, he was tired. And thirsty. His mouth felt as if it had been packed in sawdust.
That glass of water looked like heaven. Heaven, just out of reach.
Damn it.
He sighed, then wished he hadn’t, because it made his ribs hurt. His entire body ached. How was it possible that a body could ache absolutely everywhere? Except for his leg, which burned.
But he thought that maybe he didn’t have a fever any longer. Or at least not much of one. It was hard to tell. He certainly felt more lucid than he had in some time.
He watched Honoria for a minute or so. She didn’t move at all in her sleep. Her head was cocked to the side at an unnatural angle, and he could only think that she was going to wake up with a terrible crick in her neck.
Maybe he should wake her up. It would be the kind thing to do.
“Honoria,” he croaked.
She didn’t move.
“Honoria.” He tried to say it louder, but it came out the same—raspy and hoarse, like an insect hurling itself against the window. Not to mention that the effort was exhausting.
He tried reaching out to her again. His arm felt like a dead weight, but somehow he got it off the bed. He meant to just poke her, but instead his hand landed heavily on her outstretched leg.
“Aaaaah!” She came awake with a shriek, her head snapping up so fast she hit the back of it on the bedpost. “Ow,” she moaned, bringing her hand up to rub the sore spot.
“Honoria,” he said again, trying to get her attention.
She mumbled something and let out a huge yawn as she rubbed her cheek with the heel of her hand. And then: “Marcus?”
She sounded sleepy. She sounded wonderful.
“May I have some water, please?” he asked her. Maybe he should have said something more profound; he had, after all, practically come back from the dead. But he was thirsty. Wandering the desert thirsty. And asking for water was about as profound as one got in his condition.
“Of course.” Her hands fumbled about in the darkness until they landed on the glass. “Oh, blast,” he heard her say. “One moment.”
He watched as she got to her feet and made her way to another table, where she picked up a pitcher. “There isn’t much left,” she said groggily. “But it should be enough.” She poured some into the glass, then picked up the spoon.
“I can do it,” he told her.
She looked at him with surprise. “Really?”
“Can you help me sit up?”
She nodded and wrapped her arms around him, almost like an embrace. “Here we are,” she murmured, pulling him up. Her words landed softly in the crook of his neck, almost like a kiss. He sighed and went still, allowing himself a moment to savor the warmth of her breath against his skin.
“Are you all right?” she asked, pulling back.
“Yes, yes, of course,” he said, snapping out of his reverie with as much speed as a man in his condition could manage. “Sorry.”
Together, they got him into a sitting position, and Marcus took the glass and drank without assistance. It was remarkable how much that felt like a triumph.
“You look so much better,” Honoria said, blinking sleep from her eyes. “I— I—” She blinked again, but this time he thought it might be to keep from crying. “It’s so nice to see you again.”
He nodded and held out the glass. “More, please.”
“Of course.” She poured another and handed it to him. He drank it greedily, exhaling only when he had finished the whole thing.
“Thank you,” he said, handing it back.
She took it, set it down, then set herself back down in the chair. “I was so worried about you,” she said.
“What happened?” he asked. He remembered some of it—her mother and the scissors, the giant rabbit. And she’d called him her touchstone. He would always remember that.
“The doctor has been by to see you twice,” she told him. “Dr. Winters. The younger Dr. Winters. His father— Well, I’m not sure what happened to his father, but honestly, I don’t care to know. He never even looked at your leg. He had no idea you’d an infected wound. If he’d seen it before it got so bad, well, I suppose it all may have turned out the same.” Her lips pressed together in frustration. “But maybe not.”