Page 63 of Tangled Trust

"Literally. I was baptized in sick earlier this morning. That was fun," I groan.

"Oh, delish. Rather you than me," he laughs. "I’m not good with vomit."

"I don’t think anyone really is. But, hey, it comes with the territory when you’re an Au Pair," I sigh.

"How is he?"

"A little peaked, but he’ll be fine. Plenty of fluids and Avatar, and he’ll be right as rain in no time. How was your day?"

"Productive, thanks. I miss you."

"Ah, me too."

"Ella," Jagger interrupts the conversation, "I think…"

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence before a stream of fluids bursts from him again, covering the sheets.

"Oh, no. Sorry, Carter. I have to go. I'll call you later."

"Hang in there, brave human."

"Yeah, you owe me."

* * *

Yup! I called it. After spending an entire day in bed with Jagger and his bug yesterday, I wake up this morning feeling like crap. I’m nauseated, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t keep anything down.

Bloody, hell. This stinks. But I have no other choice but to pull on my big girl panties and suck it up. Jagger comes rushing past me as I’m on my way to the kitchen in search of a cup of tea.

"Hey, Ella!" he yells, clearly having emerged victorious in his fight with the green attacker.

It’s Saturday morning, and I’m eternally grateful that I don’t have to drive Jagger to school today. The last thing I need is to move around too much, so I ask George to keep an eye on Jagger and his sidekick while I die quietly in a corner somewhere in the house.

Fortunately for me, there is plenty of staff in and around the place, so Jagger will be just fine. I’m not so sure about myself. I feel like death warmed up.

"Hi, Ella," Chef says when he sees me moving along at a snail’s pace. "You don’t look so hot."

"You’d better not come too close. I fear I’ve caught Jagger’s stomach bug."

"Oh, yay. Can I make you a chicken consommé? That usually does the trick."

"That’s very sweet of you, but I don’t think I should eat."

"No, that won’t do. I’ll make it, and you can have it later, if you like."

"That’s so kind of you. Thank you."

"No one goes hungry on my watch," he smiles and his round cheeks pull his eyes into near slits.

I leave the happy chef to rule over his cauldron while I go rummage through the herbal tea collection in the pantry. Ginger is always a good idea when one is nauseated, so I choose ginger and orange-flavored green tea and hope that I’ll be able to keep it down.

Half an hour later, I have my answer when I’m bent over the porcelain, hurling my guts out. I decide to make myself comfortable on the floor in the bathroom when the dry heaving starts. Ugh! Will this hell ever end?

I can hear Jagger’s happy little voice as he runs by the window. Typical. The little carrier is in fine fettle while I lie here dying. So, this is how it ends. Not with a bang, but with slow body fluid seepage until I’m nothing more than a retching husk.

It’s 3 p.m., and there’s a glimmer of hope on the horizon. I haven’t thrown up for almost an hour, so I feel cautiously optimistic. I’m hungry too, which is a good sign. It looks like I won’t die today. The consommé is starting to sound pretty damn enticing. I may even try my hand at a dry piece of toast.

Chef is preparing his stocks and other fantastical potions for the weekend. The kitchen is a melting pot of fragrant spices and herbs as I wander in on iffy legs. I’m a bit dehydrated, so I prepare a quick sugar, salt, and water solution and throw it back before I attempt the soup.

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