It was nice of Lucas, really. He should have more important things on his mind, or at least more interesting things, than little Robin Blessing. He should be off being wise, or scary, or both. Off doing things, it was alleged, that even a Sibley would hesitate to do. He should be busy being someone marked by destiny.
Robin worried, sometimes, when he thought of it. About whatever Lucas’ great purpose might be and what it would do to Lucas, who took everything so seriously. He would commit himself to the task no matter what it was, and then where would Robin be?
“I ask you,” Robin finished, voice too hoarse for his indignation and worry to come through.
“Ask me what, Blessing?” Lucas wondered, doing it again.
“I don’t think anyone calls me Blessing anymore,” Robin informed him as loudly as he could, over the rain and the damned whistling and his frantic heart. “They aren’t around to do it.” He gazed up into Lucas’ face, which, as Marise had sighed once, was a well-shaped and handsome face, with or without scars. “Do you hear that whistling too?” Robin frowned for it, and for the concern now obvious in Lucas’ expression. “Annoying, isn’t it? Aren’t you cold?” Robin looked Lucas over and flicked the store-bought scarf so he could study it better, although his vision seemed to be swimming again.
“I suppose not,” Robin answered his own question. “Dressed well for the weather, didn’t you? Where did you get thatscarf? Why even bother with the flimsy thing? Not a drop of love in asingle stitch. Oh. Did you know a storm was coming? Of course, you did. Oh,” Robin added, quieter and embarrassed, “I didn’t mean…” He peeked up, but there was no sign of fear around Lucas, so he cautiously continued, “I’m so glad you’re okay.”
Lucas scowled, actually scowled. They would have pitched a fit in town to see that but Robin decided it was an expression of confusion again, extreme confusion this time, and perhaps more concern.
Lucaswasalways asking after Robin’s health. Every time Robin took something over to the Greysmith house, he’d get those questions. He ought to answer them.
Robin raised his head again, standing away from the door and doing his best to focus on Lucas and the swaying porch.
“Truthfully, Lucas,” he said slowly, burning hot at the admission, “Iama little tired.”
Then his knees seemed to stop working and the world went black and sparkling.
Two
Robin frowned at the pillow his face was smushed into. A fire somewhere nearby was crackling and far too hot. He shoved at the blanket under his chin so he could get some cooler air and the distant murmur of voices he had only just noticed suddenly stopped.
The blanket was again pressed under his chin.
Robin glared without opening his eyes, which seemed to be sealed shut.
“No,” he insisted, and pushed weakly at the blanket without actually moving it. Satisfied despite this, he rolled over to hide against the back of the couch.
The distant speakers laughed.
Rude, Robin told them, or would have, but his mouth was sealed shut now too, and he was so very tired.
Someone was trying to make Robin sit up and drink something. Thesomethingwas warm and sweet, but he was out of honey as well as tea, he was sure he was, which made the drink a mystery. It was nice, whatever it was, so he swallowed when told to and then sat back against a mound of pillows that hadn’t been there before.
He had a moment to enjoy the wetness on his tongue. Then he coughed and the nice drink was everywhere but in his mouth.
The voices clucked and fussed and wouldn’t let him apologize, though he tried. A gentle hand brushed his hair from his face and made him think of Flora, another great-aunt, risking the flu herself to see Robin through it at ten.
“Flora made me graham crackers,” Robin confided to a ghost who looked a lot like Mallory Greysmith.
“Oh, Blessing,” she said, stroking his hair. The touch was as nice as watered-down tea, heavy with honey. “Just rest.”
The next time Robin was propped up and asked to drink something, it didn’t taste nearly so nice. The honey was in the voice asking him to take small sips and the hand under the cup to support the weight when Robin automatically tried to hold it.
“Lucas,” Robin whined in complaint after a while. The cup was taken away. Robin wasn’t allowed to sit back, but he closed his eyes and breathed slowly in and out and held the hand in his as tightly as he could until someone else said, “That should be good,” and Robin could finally rest again.
“Tired,” he grumpily told Lucas and whoever else. It was not an invitation to be tucked in again, yet that happened and it wasn’t terrible.
“I know you’re tired,” Lucas answered, soft and possibly tired himself.
Robin carelessly patted the blankets at his side so Lucas would know he should rest too. Then, with a pleased nod, he went back to sleep.
The next time Robin cracked an eye to consider where he was, he was not surprised to find himself on the couch. He had been sleeping on the couch for a while now, so this made sense. What didn’t was seeing the baskets in several places around the room that had been gently pushed out of the walkways and how the piles of yarn and unfinished projects in each one had been stacked into neat little pyramids.
That seemed like something he ought to deal with, like the far-off sound of raps or clicks and then a woman singing, “I’m not good, I’m not nice!” before being told to shush.
