Page 89 of Stay with Me

As it was, she waited for him to duck out of the cottage and stride toward her, anger in each step and etched into his face—anger that she’d left when he’d been helpless to stop her, anger that she’d put herself in danger, anger that she’d taken so long.

But when he didn’t appear, unease niggled at her. He’d gone somewhere, probably searching for her.

As she slid down from the mount, her legs could hardly bear her weight, and she grasped onto the saddle to keep herself from tumbling to her knees. Maybe she would have to tell Nicholas the truth about needing another dose of holy water and ask him to ride to St. Sepulchre for her. Or to Chesterfield Park. Perhaps he’d have more luck in swaying the guards to allow him to speak with Marian or Arthur.

After caring for the horse, she shuffled into the cottage. A few embers in the center hearth glowed, but it was clear no one had added fuel, perhaps even since she’d left.

At a groan and movement from the bed, her heartbeat came to an abrupt halt. Through the darkness, she could see Nicholas’s outline in the bed. In an instant she knew why he hadn’t stalked out to greet her...

There was only one thing that could keep him down—the plague.

She’d known his catching it was a possibility, but she hadn’t really expected it, had believed he was too strong, toodetermined, too healthy to be affected the way other people were. But now he was suffering and would possibly die within a day, maybe even during the night.

Nicholas dead?

She took a step back and bumped into the doorframe. She’d lost too many people she loved already. How could she bear to lose another?

Closing her eyes, she clutched the rough wooden beam. Everything within her pulsed with the need to run. Run. She would run somewhere, lie down, and die. Then she wouldn’t have to face the pain of losing Nicholas.

Isaac’s words from one of their last visits together in the lab clamored at the back of her mind:“You and Dawson are more alike than you realize. After losing your mum, you’re both running scared.”

Had she been running scared? Running from pain? And running from people who could end up leaving her and hurting her again?

Maybe that’s why she’d left Isaac. That’s certainly why she’d wanted to leave Dawson. And now... she was afraid of losing Nicholas.

She didn’t want to watch him die. But how could she do anything but stay with him during his last moments and try to bring him as much comfort as possible? Even though she wanted to protect herself from another loss, she had to remain by his side until the end, even if in doing so she lost her soul.

She pushed away from the door and crossed to the fire. She grabbed a handful of kindling and added it to the embers, stoking the coals until several of the twigs flared, providing more light.

Then she crossed to the bed, sat on the edge, and took stock of Nicholas. His skin was hot, and yet he was trembling. His dark hair had come loose from his hair tie, likely from all thethrashing, and now his hair stuck to the perspiration on his forehead and neck.

For a heartbeat, panic reared up inside her. Before it could claim her, she stood and forced herself to gather supplies to treat Nicholas. First, a rag and a basin of cold water. She bathed his face to cool him before she laid the rag across his forehead. Then she raised his head and gave him sips of ale so he wouldn’t get dehydrated. As she lowered him, her fingers brushed against a swollen lymph node near his armpit—a tennis-ball size lump.

Hardly able to breathe past the fear constricting her airway, she lit a rushlight and sought out Father Fritz, hoping he would have instructions on which herbal remedies and tonics would be the most helpful.

She found him in the same cottage where she’d left him earlier in the day. But this time, he was lying on the floor, delirious and shaking from chills. From what she could tell, everyone who remained in the village was either sick or already dead. Even Beatrice had taken to her pallet beside Ralph.

As she returned to Nicholas and took in his still form, she tried to keep at bay the voices in her head telling her the situation was hopeless.

“I have to do something.” Her whisper came out harsh, even angry. But in the next instant, helplessness washed over her. The only thing she could do was pray and provide relief.

She’d start with Nicholas, then move her way through the remaining cottages. She wasn’t sure how much time she had left for herself, but she’d tend to the sick and dying until she no longer could.

She knelt beside the hearth and stirred the sticky paste in one pot and the watery substance in the next. She didn’t know what either was used for, but she guessed one was for a poultice and the other some kind of tonic.

For long hours, she went from one patient to the next, giving sips of ale and the tonic, wiping foreheads with cool cloths, and plastering swollen spots with poultice. By the time the night had passed, she could barely think straight past her weariness.

At the first tinges of dawn, she perched on the bedframe beside Nicholas, clutching his hand, praying he would awaken. But he tossed his head from side to side and mumbled in agitation. He wasn’t getting any better. And neither was she.

A small part of herself once again taunted her, told her that she wasn’t worthy, that the people in her life left her because they didn’t love her enough.

“No.” She let her voice echo in the quiet of the cottage. She couldn’t give up. Giving up was equivalent to running away.

She pushed to her feet and returned to the table and the assortment of medicines Father Fritz had abandoned and left in disarray in his haste. She skimmed her fingers over the scattered herbs and the open bottles. She didn’t know what herbs went together to make specific medicines the same way that Marian and Arthur might. They were intelligent scientists and would be able to test and discover remedies. But surely she could find something to help Nicholas and the others.

Several wooden boxes from underneath the bed now sat beside the table, still filled partially with a hodgepodge of canisters, crocks, and bottles. She knelt to examine them, hoping to locate one of the small bulbous bottles that she’d found in the closet under the steps, or even one of the green glass bottles similar to what had been put in the cabinet at Reider Castle. But finding something like that in this makeshift medieval medicine cabinet was a pipe dream.

She stifled a yawn and let her fingers graze a tall brown vial shaped like a thin flower vase. As she traced a raised pattern of a largeW, something tugged at her memory. She’d fingered a raisedWlike this before. But where?