by Lili Valente
“That’s what my sister said. My other sister, Zan. But that’s not what’s happening. She doesn’t understand. And you don’t understand.” She smacks her lips in a way that for some reason I find rather adorable. “People don’t understand.”
“Understand that you don’t want to be in an arranged marriage?” I arch a brow. “A lot of people would understand that, Elizabeth. I know most people consider Andrew a catch, but to you, he’s a stranger. And who in their right mind would want to marry a stranger?”
“No, it’s not that.” She sighs, her head lolling forward before she jerks it up again. “Oh, boy…the room is spinning. And I think my… I think…”
“You think what?” I reach for her scarf, easing it apart at the neck, releasing a puff of heat from her burning skin. “We need to get you cooled off. A fever this high is dangerous.”
“I think there are termites in my bones,” she mumbles as I reach for the tap and twist it on, releasing a groan from the plumbing in the wall and a rush of slightly yellow water that thankfully clears in a few seconds. “You ever feel like that?” she asks in a louder croak, to be heard over the rushing water. “Like there’s something in there, just…gnawing away?”
“All the time,” I say without thinking as I adjust the temperature of the water, knowing it can’t be too cool or she won’t be able to stay in it for long.
Suddenly her hot hands are on my cheeks, gently turning me to face her. “I’m so sorry, Jeffrey. That’s horrible,” she says with such earnestness I can’t help but laugh.
“I wasn’t serious,” I confess. “I was humoring you. I think you’re a little out of your head right now, love.”
“Love,” she murmurs seriously. “Yes, love is nice. But I told you, Jeffrey, I’m in a serious relationship with my work. And that’s it. I’m never going to fall in love.”
“Good to know,” I say, knowing any further discussion of her engagement to Andrew or the fact that she sent her sister to Gallantia in her place will have to wait until she’s in her right mind.
She nods. “I’m glad that’s clear. It’s very important.”
I nod. “Agreed.”
“And, I mean, do you seem nice, underneath the scowly exterior? Yes, you do,” she mumbles with another smack of her lips. “Are you sexy with your eyes and muscles and the swooping and the carrying and all of that? Well, yes. But…” She leans forward, resting her forehead heavily on my shoulder. “But I’m just so tired, Jeffrey. So, so tired. And the rest of the story is sad.”
I take her face in my hands, guiding her back until I catch her feverish gaze. “Are you going to be safe alone in this bath? Or do I need to stay here with you to make sure you don’t drown?”
Her breath shudders out, and something flickers behind her eyes, something that makes me imagine what it would be like to kiss her. If she weren’t sick and half out of her mind with fever, of course.
And if she weren’t my brother’s fiancée…
I’m ninety percent certain the engagement is off, or that it will be as soon as Lizzy is up to calling her sister and Andrew, but even a ten percent chance this woman might end up my brother’s wife is too much.
“I’ll be fine,” she whispers, shifting back on the toilet seat, pulling her face from my hands. “But I should probably take a pill before I get in.”
I nod. “Be right back.” I flee the bathroom and race up the stairs, grateful for the excuse to get away from Lizzy’s haunting gaze for a few minutes.
I don’t know what it is about this woman, but she makes me feel…scrambled inside. Scrambled and hopeful in ways I shouldn’t be hopeful. She’s absolutely off limits. “Off-limits,” I remind myself aloud, but the hope candle burning inside me only flares brighter.
Stupid candle, dangerous candle.
But I can’t deny the warmth of it feels nice.
6
Elizabeth
I am desperately ill for what feels like an eternity.
Each evening when Jeffrey tucks me into bed, I insist I’ll be right as rain come morning, and each morning I wake feeling achy and strange and so floaty I can’t remember getting out of bed.
I space out and come back into my body already curled on the couch upstairs or slumped at the kitchen table with a cup of tea steaming in front of me. Other times, I wake up in the closet or in the chair in the corner of my bedroom or…out on the foldout sofa in the library with Jeffrey, curled against his side with my face tucked into his warm armpit like a puppy in search of comfort and spicy smells.
But of course, his armpit isn’t spicy. At least, not in a bad way.
The General’s armpit is as fastidiously clean and well-groomed as the rest of him.
I take to calling him that on—I think—Day Two of The Sickness, after he orders me back to bed for the seventh time, insisting I need rest, not to dust the books and rearrange them in alphabetical order. But the steroids he fetched from the pharmacy in Islip Downs, along with all the other meds for what a Gallantian royal doctor Jeffrey consulted by phone suspects is a raging case of pneumonia, make me itchy beneath the skin.
I keep wanting to do something, but every time I take out a sewing project or start dragging books off shelves, I end up sitting on the floor, dizzy and winded and trying out my new curse words.
In between ordering me back to bed and insisting I take my meds on a firm schedule, Jeffrey teaches me colorful new swear words in Russian and French, two languages he speaks that I do not.
Sometimes, after a lesson, I make him keep talking to me in French because I like how it feels when the words rumble his ribs as I lie with my head on his chest.
We lie snuggled together on the couch or in his bed or in my bed far too often for two people who are “just friends,” but in my feverish, sickly state, I don’t worry about it too much. And when he offers to carry me to my bed on what I think is the fourth night of our increasingly odd relationship, I wrap my arm tighter around his waist and shake my head. “No. I want to sleep here.”
“You’ll fall off the couch,” he says, but he makes no move to shift his chest from under my cheek or untangle his leg from mine.
“I won’t,” I murmur sleepily. “I’m very good at sleeping.”
“You’re terrible at sleeping. I’ve caught you sleepwalking twice.”
“That’s how good I am at it. I can sleep and do other things at the same time.” I yawn. “It’s called multi-tasking, Jeffrey. But women are better at it than men, so don’t be sad that you didn’t know about it. Probably wouldn’t do you much good anyway.”
He grunts. “What if you sleepwalk off the couch and fall down the stairs in the middle of the night?”
“Why does the timing matter?”
“What?”
“The timing. Whether I fall down the stairs in the middle of the night or the middle of the day, I imagine it would hurt the same amount.”
“That wasn’t the point.”
“Exactly. Your argument is flawed.” I yawn again. “Now be quiet and go to sleep so I can put my face in your armpit without it being weird.”
He lets out a soft huff of laughter. “I wondered if you were doing that on purpose.”
My lips curve. “I wasn’t before, but I’m going to start. If it feels right, why fight it?”
“That reminds me….” His body softens against mine as he adds, “We’re calling Andrew and Sabrina tomorrow.”
“I can’t, I’m still sick,” I say, snuggling closer. “You promised we wouldn’t call until I was better.”
“The engagement ceremony is tomorrow night.”
“Soon,” I murmur, my eyes sliding closed. “We’ll call soon.”
I feign sleep to end the conversation, ignoring his assertion that the ceremony is important to his family and that the truth must come out before his brother makes promises he might not be able to keep.
I know Jeffrey believes the truth is all that matters, but there are other factors at play. If I can give Sabrina a
nd Andrew even just one or two more uncomplicated days together, it could make all the difference in their love story.
And love trumps truth.
That’s why people tell their partners they get better looking with age and pretend not to notice when they fart in public. Because love is gentle and kind and unconcerned with who smelt it or who dealt it.
I make a mental note to write that down in my journal when I wake up—I’ve kept a sketching and dream journal since I was small—and drift off, only to wake what feels like a few hours later sitting on the closed toilet seat again, with my fever raging and Jeffrey balancing my chest against his shoulder as he strips my long-sleeved T-shirt over my head.
I’m not wearing anything underneath—bras are for people who are well or leaving the house or care about the perkiness of their breasts in the long term.
I haven’t worn a bra for days, so when my nipples tighten in response to Jeffrey’s warm hands on my bare skin as he steadies me against him, there’s nowhere to hide.
But I don’t want to hide.
I want him to touch me. I want to feel his strong, sure hands cupping my breasts and his cool lips on my burning flesh. I want to know what it feels like to lie in bed with him with nothing between us but heat and hunger.
If I’m going to die of pneumonia, shouldn’t I get to know what sex feels like first?
Yes, Rafe and I had sex—hands and mouths count, and in our three years together, we explored every inch of each other in those ways. But I’ve never known what it feels like to have a man inside of me. When Rafe and I first got together, I was too young, and by the time I was ready, I was old enough to know better.
I sensed that if we took that next step and lost our virginity to each other, we’d grow even closer, so close that I wouldn’t be able to send him off into the world to find another girl.
And I knew I eventually had to send him away.
I loved him too much to let him stay.
But I don’t have time to get into that sort of trouble with Jeffrey. It’s nearly June. I only have until December. Six months isn’t enough time to fall in love or to wreck a man’s life with my death—and that’s assuming we end up liking each other enough to keep banging into next winter.
We might well only have a few days. I sense Jeffrey’s going to be very angry with me again pretty soon. He’s been playing nice while I’m sick, but once I’m well, the gloves will come off.
This might be my only chance, a narrow window that will soon be closed forever.
I wrap my arms around his neck, making him flinch and his breath rush out.
“You scared me.” His worried gaze locks with mine. “I tried to wake you up half a dozen times, but I couldn’t.”
“I’m awake now,” I say, threading my fingers into his hair.
He scowls. “Seriously, Elizabeth. Your fever is back up to one hundred and three. I’m calling for a helicopter to airlift you to hospital.”
“I don’t need a hospital. I always get worse before I get better. You’ll see. I’ll be fine when I wake up tomorrow.”
“I’m calling. Now.”
“No,” I insist, curling my fingers into his neck when he tries to stand. “Please, don’t go. Stay and…touch me instead.” I take his hand, guiding it to my breast.
His breath catches and his fingers twitch, squeezing the soft flesh for a split second, sending an electric jolt of hunger through me before he pulls his hand away as if I’ve burned him.
He surges to his feet, backing away until his shoulders hit the closed bathroom door. “You’re out of your mind with fever,” he says in a tight voice. “Get in the bath.”
“I’m not out of my mind,” I insist, though I suspect that’s a lie. I should be dying of embarrassment right now, but I don’t feel anything except…hungry.
Hungry to be touched and kissed, to feel real again after years of floating through life, always distant from my body. It isn’t safe to feel too at home in my own skin. My brain knows the rules and respects the limitations of being a woman cursed to die on her twenty-sixth birthday. My body just…wants.
“You’re my brother’s fiancée,” Jeffrey says in a rough voice.
“No, I’m not. He’s going to marry Sabrina.”
“You can’t know that.”
“But I do know that. I’ve known it for a long time. Sabrina is going to marry Andrew in my place, and I’m going to do what firstborn children in my family always do.”
His brows pinch together. “You still think you can see the future? Like when you were a child?”
“No, I can’t see the future. I never could.” I sigh, too exhausted to come up with a credible lie. I might as well tell him the truth since he seems to like it so much. “A woman kidnapped me from a playground when I was seven years old. She told me that my family had been cursed for being terrible people in the past, and as a result, I would die on my twenty-sixth birthday.”
“Jesus, Lizzy.” Pain flashes in his eyes. “That’s awful. But it’s not true. You have to know that by now. That woman was clearly out of her mind.”
“Only she wasn’t.” I stand on only slightly shaky legs. “So many of my ancestors died at twenty-six, Jeffrey. And everything else she told me has come true.”
“Like what?” he challenges, before holding both hands up between us. “No. Don’t. We’ll talk about this later, once your fever is down and you’re in your right mind again.”
“I don’t want to talk about it later.” I step closer until only a whisper of humid bathroom air hangs between us. “I don’t want to talk at all, and I don’t think you do, either.”
“Get in the bath, Elizabeth,” he says, his voice hard. “I’ll be back with medicine. If we can get your fever down in the next hour, I won’t call for help.”
“You won’t call anyway,” I say calmly, grateful that my fever seems to provide a protective shield against the shame of rejection. “As you know, there’s no cell service here, and I hid the landline phone.”
He blinks. “You what?”
“I hid it. It was the first thing I did when I heard you pounding at the door. I hid it, so you couldn’t bust in and call your brother to rat me out. Then I was going to sneak out the back and run around to my car, but I got too dizzy and had to lie down on the floor. The rest, as they say, is history.”
Jeffrey’s eyes blaze hot enough to make me take a step back. “We’ve had a working phone here the entire time?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Maybe.”
“You made me drive into the village at the crack of dawn to call the doctor when we could have called her the night before and had medication waiting for us at the chemist’s in the morning?”
My tongue slips out to dampen my dry lips. “There’s no need to get upset. We have the medicine now, that’s all that matters.”
“That’s not all that matters. You could have started the antibiotics sooner, and maybe you wouldn’t still be so sick.”
“I’m fine,” I say, even as I begin to shiver violently, my body betraying me again. “Or I will be. I told you, I always get worse before I get better.”
“You’re getting worse, all right,” Jeffrey mutters.
I scowl up at him. “I’ll take this opportunity to remind you that you weren’t invited on this trip, Jeffrey. If you’re unhappy, you can go.”
“Maybe I will,” he says. “And leave you here to die of pneumonia.”
“I’m not going to die of pneumonia.”
He rolls his eyes. “Right. You’re going to prick your finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel on your twenty-sixth birthday.”
I bristle. “Usually it involves a fall down some stairs or being thrown from a horse, which you’ll see if you take even a cursory glance at my family tree. But sure, make jokes. It’s easy to make jokes when you know everything there is to know about everything and are right and perfect and even your armpits smell nice all the time.”
“My armpits do not smell nice al
l the time,” he says, his volume rising.
“That hasn’t been my experience,” I shout back. “And people who’ve never had stinky armpits or been kidnapped and returned to a playground hours after they were abducted to find that their sisters and nanny think they’ve only been gone a few minutes don’t have the right to tell other people what is real. My real isn’t your real or anyone else’s real. The sooner you realize that, the sooner you’ll stop being so grouchy about people not behaving the way you think they should.”
“So, you’re saying that reality is subjective?” He scowls harder, seeming truly disturbed by the thought. “That’s insane, Elizabeth. Some things are verifiably real. Some things, like the fact that you’ve been hiding a phone from me, are true and able-to-be-proven and are the same for everyone, no matter their past life experience or point of view.”
“Not true.” I shiver harder even as sweat beads on the back of my neck. “In my reality, I was protecting my sister’s future happiness. I wasn’t hiding anything; I was defending the person I love most in the world. So take that!”
He sighs. “Get in the bath, Elizabeth. I’ll be back with medication. And then I’m going to find the phone and call my brother.”
I leap forward, grabbing him by the arm, finally starting to feel embarrassed by the fact that I’m half naked. Blushing, I beg, “Please, can we fight about this later? When I’m wearing a shirt?”
“I’m not looking, I promise,” he says in a softer voice.
“I know.” My cheeks burn hotter. “You aren’t interested. You’ve made that abundantly clear. You don’t have to rub it in.”
His cool hand cups my cheek, applying gentle pressure until I tilt my face up to his. “You. Are. My. Brother’s. Fiancée,” he repeats, pushing on before I can correct him again. “But if you were not…”
He exhales, his breath minty on my lips, smelling of the tea I forced him to share with me before we drifted off on the couch. He’s a coffee man, but I told him it was too late for coffee, and I’m so glad I did. Right now, the warm mintiness of his breath is the sexiest smell in the world.
