I wrapped my hands around it. Feeling something out of place, a bit of a flap, like an upturned edge of paper sticking up.Oh no. Did Dude break it?
It was thinner than paper. I peered at it in the light from the window spilling across my bed.
Dude had done something to it.
There was a band around the middle of the vessel, barely perceptible, almost like a piece of metallic tape pressed into its surface, and a tiny bit of it was not adhered. I tried to press it back down, but it remained up.
I flicked it, it was comforting to just flick that sliver of thin metal back and forth, dozing in and out of consciousness, while Torin was away at church, praying over my life.
And then the sliver was a bit bigger.
I hoped Dude hadn’t broken it. I hoped I hadn’t made it worse.
What if Dude and I had broken the vessel?
I pushed it away. Best to stop messing with it.
I rolled over, slowly slithered off the bed, and crawled over to the bowl. Madame Agnes jumped from her seat and met me there.
I retched, though by now my stomach was empty.
“Och nae, m’lady, ye are wretched with the flux.”
Wretched. Retched.
I crawled back to the bed and climbed in.
I started crying, a dry weak weep.
“Och, m’lady, ye canna despair, yer husband is goin’ tae see tae ye.”
Dry heave, dry sob. I was a dried husk of what I had been.
I put out a shaking hand for the mug and she aimed it toward my lips. I took a sip of a thin bitter ale, and barely got it down before beginning to retch — unable to make it to the bowl, justonto my stomach. Madame Agnes rushed the bowl over, but not in time.
I lay back. She wiped my face, and got a new clean blanket for me.
I went into a daze, flicking the odd piece of something on the vessel once more, descending into a doze.
Torin entered the room.
I heard the murmur of a hushed conversation, then Torin kneeled beside my bed, his forearms on the mattress, a hand smoothing my hair back from my forehead. “How are ye, Princess?”
“Been better.”
He smoothed my hair and then tucked my blankets. “Och nae, I am worried on ye.”
“You went to the church.”
“Aye, I hae been in prayer, mo leannan.”
He picked up my hand and held it in both of his.
“What does... molan-an mean...?”
“It means ‘my sweetheart.’ I think tis alright. I daena ken why, but I feel I must… tis alright?”
“Oh… yes... don’t mind. I like that... what were you praying about?”
