Page 84 of Monster Among the Roses (Fairy Tale Quartet 1)

“Mom,” I breathed, sitting forward and taking her hand. “You’re awake. Are you okay? In pain? Do you need a drink? I’ll call a nurse.”

I started to reach for the call-nurse button, but Mom waved me silent. “A nurse was just in here taking my vitals.” Her voice was weak and tired and her eyes were half-open, filled with exhaustion, but her words were clear and her smile was genuine. “I’m okay,” she assured me.

She was far from okay. She was pale, her hip was broken—again—and now we had a concussion to handle. When she coughed, I remembered, oh yeah, and she’d bruised some ribs.

The woman was lucky she hadn’t hurt anything else—she was lucky to be alive—and yet, she was still far from being out of the woods and headed toward recovery.

Unable to stop worrying, I pressed my hand to her brow. When I sucked in a breath over how hot she felt, she waved a hand to dismiss my concerns. “Yes, I have a bit of a fever,” she said. “The nurse said she’d be back with some ibuprofen.”

I nodded and pushed more water at her. I don’t think she was thirsty, but she took a drink to humor me. And then we waited, and waited, and waited. The nurse didn’t return until over half an hour later. By then, my mother’s cheeks had flushed and a sheen of sweat coated her brow.

“Sorry it took so long to return,” she apologized, “but the results from one of Margaret’s blood tests came back, and I needed to call the doctor.”

I sat up straighter, on full alert. “Is everything okay?”

The nurse wouldn’t quite meet my gaze as she focused all her attention on giving Mom her pills. Then she cleared her throat and answered, “It looks as if there could be an infection. The doctor can talk to you more about that when he arrives.”

She left soon afterward, and I glanced at my mother, whose head was lulling to the side as she began to fall asleep. I reached out again to touch her brow. I knew there was no way the medicine could work that quickly to fight off her fever, but I swear she felt twice as hot as she had the last time I’d checked. It worried me.

She tutted softly and murmured my name as if trying to reassure me, and then she was out, sleeping fitfully between the occasional coughing.

By noon, I realized there was no way she’d make it home before the next day, and there was no way I would be able to tear myself away from her side, so I called Porter Hall.

Henry himself answered the phone. I’d been expecting Constance or maybe Mrs. Pan, but when I heard his voice, I was a little disappointed Isobel hadn’t answered instead.

After explaining to him what had happened and telling him I wasn’t sure when I’d be back to work, he was extremely understanding. And yet I still kept apologizing.

“Don’t worry about it, Shaw. Your mother needs you. I totally understand. Take as much time as you need.”

I nodded gratefully and mumbled a gruff, “Thank you.”

My mind turned to Isobel. As it had many times throughout the night while I’d been sitting there, worrying about my mother. Her dad hadn’t mentioned her. I wasn’t sure if he knew about the outcome of our date, or if he was politely not mentioning it because I had other concerns, but I wanted to hear how she was doing.

Actually, I wanted to hear her voice and talk to her for my own selfish needs. I wanted to tell her what I’d been through and heap all my worries on her, gush how scared shitless for my mother’s life I was. But I was afraid if I asked to talk to her and I heard her voice, the ache to see her would grow so strong I’d beg her to come sit with me at the hospital. I needed her, greedily wanted her with me, supporting me through this. I needed her hand wrapped around mine and her soothing rose scent in my nose.

But she was dealing with her own problems, and I didn’t want to ask her to leave home if it was too much to ask.

So I simply said, “You’ll let Isobel know?”

Her dad answered, “Yes. Yes, of course.” And I felt marginally better, hoping maybe—if she was improved from the night before—she’d come to me on her own.

After I hung up, I stared bleakly at my mother’s face while she slept. Her tossing and turning grew worse. Her coughing turned to hacking. And the doctor, who finally showed, shook his head as if to say, This isn’t good. This isn’t good at all.

More blood tests were taken, more painkillers administered, and Mom didn’t improve.

I stayed in the hospital by her side for three days straight, only leaving to find food in the cafeteria or to use the bathroom, where I splashed water onto my face as the only way to wash.

By the time Gloria appeared in the doorway of the hospital room on Tuesday, I was sure my hair was a nasty matted greaseball and my clothes—or rather Ezra’s clothes—were about to wrinkle right off me.

I blinked at her from bloodshot, exhausted eyes and shook my head. “Gloria? What’re you doing here?” How had she even learned where I was?

She swept into the room, her hazel eyes full of worry as she shifted her gaze between me and my sleeping mother. “I went to your apartment, but no one answered the door. A neighbor finally told me about an ambulance they saw the other night, loading your mom onto a stretcher. My God, Shaw.” She sat in the chair next to mine and took Mom’s pale hand as if genuinely worried about her. “What happened? And why are you wearing a suit?”

It didn’t matter that she wasn’t my favorite person on earth; she really did seem to adore my mother, so I ignored the suit question and explained everything Mom had been through. I even set my hand on her shoulder when she turned teary-eyed.

“She could’ve died,” Gloria choked out.

I swallowed painfully and nodded. “She’s a fighter, though.” I turned back to Mom. “She’ll fight it off.”

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