Page 22 of The Stolen Princess
He was dressed in the same maroon silk pajamas that he’d worn that morning at breakfast, and his face was pale and hollow. His eyes and cheeks sunk in, leaving his bones to protrude out. His body slumped over as if he didn’t have enough strength to hold himself up. He looked a hundred years old. Older than he had looked when Myka had left him that morning.
She lunged toward him, holding the palm of her hand against his forehead. The heat from his skin burned her hand. An unsettling realization churned inside of her.
He had another fever.
She looked at Blanch. “What’s wrong with him?”
The nurse hid her concern with a smile. “Nothing. He’s just having a bad day. I’ll get his fever under control, and he’ll get some rest and be back to himself again.”
Myka grabbed her father’s other hand, trying to help get him to his bed.
“It’s not safe,” he muttered under his breath. “Not sa…” his words trailed off into a whisper.
Myka eyed Blanch, but she shook her head. Slowly, they helped him onto the mattress, scooting his body back against the pillow. His chest heaved up and down.
“The blankets,” he slurred. His eyes were closed, but his hand motioned toward the feather comforter. “Cold.” Drool rolled down his bottom lip as he tried to talk.
Myka pulled the covers up over his body and situated the pillows against his head the way he liked them. She sat down in her chair, leaning forward so she could quickly help him. She bit her lip and tried to shut down the emotion rising in her chest and into her eyes.
He looked so much worse than he had that morning.
His heavy eyelids raised. “My-ka. I...need to...tell...you.” With each word, her father sucked in a heavy breath.
She bent over his body, trying to keep her own concerns under control. “Shh. You don’t need to tell me anything.”
“The woods,” he coughed out, his fragile body hunching inward. “The woods...where we...used to play.” More broken words.
She rubbed her hand across his forehead. “I know, Dad. We used to play in the woods.”
“Don’t forget.” The words were garbled.
“I won’t forget.” Tears streamed down her face. She didn’t even know when they had begun. “I couldn’t forget playing in the woods with you.”
His face and body relaxed like he’d said what he had wanted to.
Blanch leaned over Myka’s shoulder with a cold towel and pressed it against her father’s head. “I’ll get his fever down.”
Myka looked at the nurse. “We need to give him some of Joett’s medicine.” She reached for the vial on his nightstand. It was empty. Her stomach dropped.
“Blanch, what happened to the medicine?” she asked, bringing the vial up to her eyes.
Blanch shook her head, blinking fast. “I...I don’t know. We must have used it all.”
Her father groaned next to her. “The woods.” He reached absentmindedly for her hand. “Remember the woods, Myka.”
Her eyes darted to her father.
He was dying.
Not right now.
Or that day.
Or even the next.
But he was dying.
Myka hadn’t seen it a week ago, or yesterday, or even hours earlier, but it was so apparent now. She was such a fool, living all this time with her eyes shut tightly so she wouldn’t feel the pain, but now it stabbed at her heart in a way she wouldn’t be able to escape. She couldn’t worry right now about what had happened to the medicine. All she could worry about was getting more.
