“Drink it.”
“Please.”
He pressed the glass into her hands, guided it to her lips, and she drank with a sickening weakness. Her body melted to the floor, convulsing, weeping—
“Miss Whitmore.” Someone grasped her shoulders, flitting away the darkness. “It is but a dream. Compose yourself.”
Sleep jumbled the words, but the need to scramble away slowly dimmed. Dragging the bed linens to her face, she rubbed hard at her wet cheeks before forcing her eyes open.
Mr. Oswald’s candlelit figure hovered over her. “It seems I had occasion to enter your bedchamber tonight after all, does it not?”
“What is wrong?”
“You, for one.” He set the candlestick on the stand next to her bed. “I could hear you from the hall, crying out in some sort of demented nightmare.”
“I am sorry for causing disturbance.” But it was more than that. He was not merely here because she had murmured in her sleep.
Something else, some other purpose, sharpened his expression in a way she could not read. His breath smelled of sherry. His silk banyan gaped open at the neck, and a knot worked up and down his throat.
“Simon.” She sat up quicker. “He is—”
“Still in a fever, but Dr. Morpeth has leeched him yet again. His temperature seems to be in decline.”
“I should sit with him.”
“Unnecessary. I have a competent nurse already assisting the doctor, and I am certain another occupant would only be in the way.”
Some of the tension settled. She dragged the bed linens tighter against her neck. She would have asked him more, what else could have brought him here, but all her eyes longed to do was drift closed again.
Then his face dipped closer.
Panic spiked. “Mr. Oswald—”
“Forgive me.” Inches from his face, eyes clinging to her lips, he froze. “I would not have disturbed you so late if it were not so consequential to the tranquility of your sleep.” He straightened and spoke louder to someone outside the room, “Send them in.”
The door creaked open in the darkness, and two small figures were ushered into the room.
Air caught in Georgina’s lungs. She told herself to throw back the coverlet, scramble from bed, touch them and squeeze them to make certain they were real.
But all she could do was stare, as the two shadows, hand in hand, edged into the scope of candlelight.
Both wore coarse, grogram uniforms, numbers stitched at their chests, with John’s shirt sleeves tattered about the elbows and Mercy’s dress hem touching the floor. Her curls were matted. His eyes bleary. Their expressions stricken.
“One of the servants discovered them in a private almshouse on the East End.”
Georgina slipped out of bed, knees hitting the rug before them. “John.” She grasped his cheek, numbed at the coldness of his skin. “Mercy.”
The child dove into Georgina, face in her neck, breaths choppy and sob-like, though Georgina felt no tears. “My sweet girl. My sweet Mercy. Shh.”
John attempted to back away, but Georgina caught his hand. She pulled him into her, hugged him close. He made a slight sound, as if in pain, but conformed to her. They smelled of straw and filth and…Simon. Why did they smell of Simon?
She could live and die to that smell.
“According to the matron, the children were separated upon arrival.” Mr. Oswald cleared his throat. “The boy did a considerable amount of protesting, I think, judging by the punishment he received.”
Punishment.She did not wish to know what they had endured. She could not bear it. She could not bear anything except that they were here, they were alive, and Simon would not have to lose them.
Shewould not have to lose them.
