Page 11 of As Many Stars
Thick red hair and lightning-green eyes and broad shoulders filled up the room. A swoop of greatcoat rustled, heavy and dark. Cam’s boots were loud and his trousers were practical and he had small lines at the corners of his mouth, laughter, maybe, or grief, or some other emotion; Blake had been drawn to those lines, the stories hidden there, the textures. He was again, in that moment: seeing, remembering, body alive with it.
Cam crossed the room and went right to Ash, while glancing briefly at Blake; the edge of his mouth crooked for an instant, but he was a doctor with a patient, and he said, “You’re Blake’s friend, are you?” in that familiar amber warmth like Scottish hills, and he did not seem to notice that he’d used Blake’s first name, unconsciously intimate as a revelation.
Chapter 6
Ashley, astonished, answered, “Yes,” and his gaze darted Blake’s way and back to Cam. “Ashley Linden…just Ash, please…how do you know Blake?”
“He asked me to come.” Cam had Ash’s slender wrist in a professional grip, counting pulse-beats. Blake’s head did a small electric-storm crackle at the incongruity, the overlay. Cam’s easy command, that large capable hand on a wrist, encircling…but Ash’s, not his own…even more lovely and elegant, of course, and yet right now Ash was ill…
Cam muttered something in uncomplimentary-sounding Gaelic under his breath, released Ashley’s arm, added, “Also get a bit of fresh air in here, would you? Just enough to open this room up. Who told you to shut everything up like this, honestly…”
Blake had got up automatically at the casual order, and opened the window a crack, and found himself looking back for approval. Cam nodded at him. And the amount of relief Blake’s whole self felt, at that approval, was frankly absurd.
Ashley was looking back and forth between them, and tried to speak, and crumpled into a coughing fit. Blake ran back over, and held out tea, and said, “He was ill when I came home—I mean when I arrived, yesterday…but it’s got worse, the way he sounds now…ever since this morning…”
“Aye.” Cam had fished an instrument out of the medical bag, something that looked unimpressively like a stiff tube of rolled heavy paper; he said, “Breathe for me, lad?” and appeared to be listening, through the tube, to Ash’s chest. He made a disapproving noise, after, and shook his head. “Should’ve sent for me earlier, not wasted time, not with this…”
Blake, curious, said, “It helps you listen?”
“Hmm? Oh, aye. Old trick, not one your fancy physiciansuse, but it’s helpful. Would you get some hot water up here, and just treat this like tea, it’s Peruvian bark…” Cam dove back into the bag. “Do you happen to know if there’s willow bark in the house, at all?”
Ashley’s eyes were closed, he might not’ve heard. Blake said, “I can find out,” and yanked the bell-pull so hard he wondered whether he should apologize to it. “I can get some if you need it. Anything.”
“Oh, I’ve got some, just not so much, I’ve been using this supply…not thrilled about the way that was sounding, I’ll tell you that, but it’s the fever I’m more worried about, just now…that strain on his body…” Cam’s hands were very gentle, large and firm against Ashley’s body. “Can you sit up a bit, for me? It’ll make that breathing easier…”
It did, or it seemed to, somewhat. Hot water arrived; Cam did some mysterious alchemy with bark and steeping, and then added honey. “Here you are, lad, drink that for me. Slowly, mind.”
Blake came to help. Steadying. Ash made a small face after the first sip. Cam laughed. “I know, aye? Awful. ’Tis what the honey’s for, but it doesn’t help much, I’m afraid.”
“More,” Blake said, hands around Ash’s, around the cup. “Come on…”
“We’ll want to be doing that every few hours.” Cam ran a hand through his hair; the deep autumn red, Blake noticed abruptly, had a few silver strands. Not many, but some. He wasn’t sure how old Cam—Doctor Fraser—was; older than himself, he’d guessed back in Edinburgh, but not too much so. Enough for a shiver of authority, for that solid competence. “I’ll stay, if you’re not minding that. It’ll get worse before it gets better.”
Worse. The word raked a scalpel down Blake’s spine. “Please stay. Anything you need, anything we can give you…”
“Oh, proper tea might be nice. For us, that is. Something decently strong, mind.” Cam was watching Blake’s hands, around Ash’s; Blake knew he was, caught those emerald eyes looking, did not know what expression got swiftly tucked away behind controlled maze doors. “I did say better, and no promises, mind you, but I know what word you heard, just now, so I’m reminding you I said both.”
Blake felt the corner of his mouth try to lift into a reluctant smile. “Thank you.”
“No need,” Cam said, “but I’ll say it’s a good thing you and I met again, this morning…” His voice held wryness, not scolding, but something like resignation. Blake remembered that morning too well: himself panicking, his worlds falling together, himself fleeing. Of course Cam thought the worst of him. How could it be otherwise?
And yet, and yet. Cam had come. Because Cam was that sort of person. A hero.
Ashley, between sips, inquired, “You two…you met earlier? Today?” His voice was back to that small withdrawn shyness, not so much illness as hesitance, afraid to interfere.
Cam’s gaze crossed Blake’s; Blake said, “We saw each other in the street, on my way here; Cam’s here with Straithern and his wife, helping them,” and Cam’s gaze flicked away.
Ash nodded, wearily.
Blake took the empty cup. “We’d met in Edinburgh before that. At a bookshop.” True, as it went.
“He ran into me,” Cam offered. “Literally. No umbrella, either. Like a puppy in the rain, he was.”
“Puppy,” Ash murmured.
Blake said, “Puppy?” and sighed. Cam could mock him across the length of England and Scotland combined, as long as Cam would also stay and help. “I suppose I was. You know, all big feet and rain, completely clumsy, you’d think for an explorerI’d be better prepared, go on and laugh…”
Ash did, though it turned into a cough. Cam was looking at Blake, speculative, eyebrows up.
