by Darcy Burke
More than anything, Violet hated being responsible for Lily’s pain. She was the one who hadn’t thought to close the curtains. She would never forgive herself for that. Ever.
“W-what happened?” Lily croaked, her eyes squeezed shut tight and her voice raw.
Violet swallowed hard. “You got burned by the sun, honey.”
Eyes still shut tight, Lily nodded once as if that much, at least, had been expected. “Are you sending me away?”
“Home, Tiger Lily,” Violet promised. “We’re both going home.”
Lily cracked open her eyes. “You’ll stay with me?”
Violet nodded, doing her best not to let Lily see her cry. “Of course.”
Lily tried to smile, then winced from the pain of having stretched her cracked flesh.
“Then it was worth it,” she whispered, clutching the folds of Violet’s gown with her injured fingers. “Please don’t leave me ever again. I love you.”
Choking back a sob, Violet jerked her face up toward the empty bar where bed curtains should have hung and blinked back tears as rapidly as she could. “I love you, too, Tiger Lily. I’m yours forever and ever.”
***
The pounding on Alistair’s door matched the incessant pounding in his head.
“Go away,” he shouted, burying his head beneath his pillow. If his father had suffered thus after every drinking spell, then Alistair hadn’t been missing a damn thing. “I swear I will vomit if you bring food near me again!”
“Master, come quickly. You are needed.”
Warily, he forced himself to sit up. Roper, who never lost his calm, sounded on the verge of panic. “What is it?”
“It’s Miss Lillian,” came the urgent reply. “We must go. Right now.”
Aggrieved, he held his throbbing head with one hand and forced his feet into slippers with the other. Whatever was amiss, he was certain it did not need to be attended to until at least noon. He stumbled across the room and pawed at the lock until it inadvertently clicked free. Clutching the wall at a sudden attack of nausea-spiked vertigo, he swung open the door.
“What has she done this time?” he demanded. “Tell her to go back to sleep. There’s no class today.”
Belatedly, he realized a diminutive servant boy not much older than Lillian herself also stood next to Roper, with Mrs. Tumsen and half the staff hovering right behind.
“What’s going on?” He struggled to clear his thick head. “Why are you all here? Is it my birthday?”
“It’s your daughter,” the boy piped up. “She’s all burnt up at the inn with your mistress.”
The haze evaporated from Alistair’s mind, but the words still did not make sense. “What?”
“Master,” Roper murmured. “You remember yesterday, when you said Miss Smythe had left you?”
He shot a quick glance over his manservant’s shoulder at the gaggle of onlooking staff and decided there wasn’t much point in dissembling. “Yes, I seem to recall something of that nature.”
“Miss Lillian took off after her,” Mrs. Tumsen put in, her voice and hands shaking. “They spent the night at the Shrewsbury Inn, and this morning ... well, this morning there was sun. The inn hasn’t got curtains and bed testers like we do. And Miss Lillian ... ” She swallowed. “I’m so sorry.”
Struck with bone-jarring terror, Alistair bolted from his room without bothering to fetch his coat and hat or muck with sensible shoes.
“Where are my horses?” he barked, cursing himself for ever letting go his livery. So what if he hadn’t taken a ride in nine years? If he’d been smart enough to have kept staff on hand just in case, he wouldn’t be about to waste a good hour chasing his half-wild horses into the barn to be readied. “Has anybody checked the carriage to make sure it’s still viable? How are the wheels? If I have to walk into town and carry her back in my bare hands ... Roper, summon a physician. Have him meet us at the inn. Cook, see what you can do for cold compresses. Order every ounce of ice in a hundred yard radius. Mrs. Tumsen, you know where the liniments are. I want to see every single footman carrying buckets of water to Lillian’s chamber. It’s too dangerous to travel with her while the sun still shines, but as soon as nightfall hits, I’m bringing her back home. Maids, prepare everything you can think of. I’m counting on everyone to do their part to—”
“Master.” Roper stepped forward. “It’s done. The horses have been readied and the carriage awaits you. There’s a full bottle of ointment and clean linen soaking in ice water between the seats. Everyone you don’t see here before you is carrying water and ice to Miss Lillian’s chamber. Physicians have been notified and Mrs. Tumsen has placed every drop of liniment within arm’s reach of Miss Lillian’s bed.”
Alistair could have hugged him. “Then what are we waiting for? Roper, come with me. The rest of you—” He took in their worried, sympathetic faces. “Thank you all.”
He preceded Roper down the corridor and out the door, then raced to the reins like a man possessed. They flew down the path at a tear, dirt and dust billowing up behind them.
When they arrived at the inn, a crowd had already begun to form. Some of the womenfolk hovered by with expressions of alarm and empathy. A few of the menfolk, led by the smithy, were less congenial. They shouted Bible verses and “Let the devil spawn burn!” as he shoved past them to enter the inn.
The proprietress stood halfway up a curved staircase, gesticulating wildly. “They’re upstairs. Come quickly!”
With Roper on his heels and his heart in his throat, Alistair raced up after her.
The room was pitch black. Someone had seen to that much, at least. After the blinding light of the midmorning sun, it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. Weak flame flickered in a small sconce. Slowly, the shadows began to make sense. As soon as he could make out the bed, he hurried over and fell to his knees at his daughter’s side.
Hands wringing, Violet leapt to her feet to allow him room. He ignored her. How she could have let this happen ...
“Papa’s here, sweetling,” he murmured, suffering at the sight of so many burns covering his daughter’s sweet face. “I’ve got some ointment and a cold wrap here for you, and then I’m going to bring you home.”
“Alistair,” Violet burst out. “I am so, so sorry. I never meant—”
“Be silent.” If she forced him to speak to her, he would only wound them both.
An icy fury emanated from his bones. Had he not told her time and again the horror that would occur if Lillian went into the sun? His innocent daughter was a horrible state, and she had let it happen. These burns were far worse than those Lillian had suffered before, and she still bore the scars from last time.
Alistair’s throat closed. People died from burns like these. If he lost his daughter because Violet hadn’t protected her, he would never, never, forgive her.
He thrust an open hand toward Roper, who immediately provided him with shears. Slowly, gently, Alistair trimmed away the sleeves where they might rub against Lillian’s raw arms, trimmed away the bottom third of her skirt where it might chafe her thin, blistered legs. With every snip of the shears, he sliced away another part of his soul.
Lillian was hurt. Lillian was in pain.
Lillian might die.
Vision blurring, he covered her with every drop of the ointment. His entire body shook with anger and fear and desperation. He lifted the large folded linen from the bucket of ice water and carefully swaddled it around his daughter. She winced as necessity forced him to touch and move her, but she made not a single word of complaint. She was so fragile ... Her brave stoicism broke his heart.
“I’m so sorry, sweetling,” he whispered brokenly. “Papa doesn’t mean to hurt you.”
Lillian met his eyes and gave him a raw half-smile. “I knew it would hurt,” she said quietly, her voice as scratchy and halting as his own. “I knew it would hurt and I didn’t care. I came anyway. It was worth it.”
Alistair shot a disbelieving glance up at Vio
let. She stood immobile, eyes closed, silent tears streaming down her face. As if she could feel him watching her, her lips formed the words, I’m sorry.
He jerked his horrified gaze back to his daughter. “You knew this could happen? And you followed her here anyway?”
Lillian’s eyes were glassy with pain, but her expression was one of determination. “Just ’cause I’ll get new scars doesn’t mean I forgot the old ones, Papa. But Violet was leaving. Somebody had to bring her home. If you weren’t going to, then it was up to me.”
Alistair felt the weight of all eyes in the room upon him at once. There was no time for more words. Even now, time ticked steadily against them.
The physician burst into the room. In less than half an hour, he completed his initial evaluation. Alistair stepped closer, finally feeling hopeful. The physician shook his head. Hope was misplaced. The prognosis was not good.
Alistair’s nerves shattered.
He stood at the ready throughout the long afternoon, watching in heart-twisting silence as cream after cream, compress after compress, were applied to his daughter’s wounds. Violet hovered on the other side of the worn mattress, staring sightlessly with haunted eyes. She did not speak. Good. He did not wish to even look at her. He had eyes for no one except his daughter.
When night fell, the exhausted physician finally rose to his feet. He nodded at Alistair. It was finally safe to bring Lillian home. The physician set off first, to ensure everything was ready for Lillian’s arrival. The other four would follow in Alistair’s carriage.
Hating that just the act of lifting his daughter into his arms would bring her additional pain, he scooped her up as gently as he could and eased down the steps. A crowd had gathered. Roper and Violet staved off the vitriolic smithy and his disciples, allowing Alistair to climb into the carriage and settle Lillian along one padded bench. He perched across from her, wishing to Heaven that he could press a kiss to her hair just one more time, but not daring to risk causing her more pain.
Roper took the reins as Violet slumped onto the seat next to Alistair.
To be fair, she looked as though no torture he could devise would be half as excruciating as the one raging inside her heart and mind. Her face was unnaturally pale, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen and the skin beneath puffy and bruised. Her fingers shook, and her breaths—when they came at all—were shallow and uneven.
But Alistair wasn’t feeling particularly fair. He was feeling like a man whose daughter might die from her injuries. He was feeling like a father who would sell his soul to the Devil in exchange for his daughter’s continued life.
He was feeling like a failure.
Lillian was right. He was a terrible papa. He dropped his face in his hands and did his best not to cry. Lillian needed strength right now, not further evidence of her father’s faults.
He needed to be strong, to show her his faith, his trust in the Lord that a miracle would occur and she would somehow be all right. Numbly rocking back and forth, he closed his eyes and prayed. Again and again, the same desperate litany, without changing a single word. God in Heaven, take me if you wish, but please let Lillian live.
Every tiny moan that escaped her burnt lips was another dagger to his heart.
When they finally reached the abbey, a double row of footmen waited outside. Violet leaped down from the carriage to allow him room. He gathered his daughter in his arms as tenderly as he could and carried her inside.
With every step he took, Lillian winced in pain, and with every wince, another part of Alistair crumbled inside. How he hated that the very act of carrying his daughter to safety caused her to suffer. He hated the world. He hated himself. He hated God.
Watch over Lillian. That’s all he’d ever asked. Keep her safe. If he lost her now ... Lord above, if he lost her ...
Mrs. Tumsen and a dozen housemaids awaited them at the door to the catacombs with apprehensive faces and lit candles in their hands.
“The physician is inside,” Mrs. Tumsen said as Roper unlocked the door. “He sent over another trunk of medications.”
Alistair nodded mutely. He did not trust himself to speak. If he opened his mouth even a fraction, he might scream or sob or do both at the same time, and what he really needed was to get Lillian to that physician as quickly as possible.
Focusing as best he could on keeping one foot ahead of the other, he somehow made it from the catacombs to the sanctuary. Dozens of candles flickered around the cavernous chamber, giving life to the fantastical murals that had leapt from his daughter’s head to her walls. Oh, God, was this all he would have left of her if she died? The room that had been her prison was now painted in a dizzying trompe l’oeil to simulate the freedom she found only in her imagination. The freedom she would never have.
Alistair’s body shook. He would never leave her side. He would sit here and rot here and die here if it was the only way he could still be surrounded by his daughter’s memory.
The physician was across the room, gazing up at an improbably large bumblebee flying over a panoply of rainbow-colored lilies. He turned from the wall as soon as they entered the room and hurried to the bed as Alistair tenderly laid his daughter atop the mattress.
“Go,” the physician said with a nod. “I will call you if I need you, or if anything changes.”
“I am not leaving this room,” Alistair said firmly.
The physician’s eyes were sober, but kind. “Then give me the space I need to examine my patient. Join the others over there. Your daughter will never be out of your sight.”
After a moment, Alistair nodded. He still longed to press a kiss to his daughter’s brow. To hold her to his chest and hug her tight. To promise he would never let her go. His feet dragging as if each limb weighed a thousand pounds, he somehow found the strength to back away from the bed and let the physician attend his child.
He did not go to the others, however. Partly because he was wound far too tightly to withstand well-wishes without cracking, but mostly because he wanted to stand beneath the colorful lilies. To feel closer to his daughter.
Minutes ticked into hours.
Violet sat on the floor in the far corner, arms about her knees and Lillian’s pelisse pressed to her face. From her tortured expression, she was equally as terrified as Alistair, but he kept his distance. He did not trust what he might do. She had left him. She had endangered his daughter. She had come back home. No, Alistair could not go to her. He didn’t know whether he would clutch her to his chest or strike her across the face. He loved her, but in this moment, he hated her just as passionately. Because of her thoughtlessness, they might both lose Lillian forever.
New maids brought fresh candles. More footmen refilled the buckets of ice. Empty liniment flasks lined the marble floor as the physician applied ointment after ointment to Lillian’s mottled skin. No one breathed.
At last, the physician rose from the bed, his eyes bleak and his face somber.
No. The edges of Alistair’s vision turned black. He couldn’t lose her. He could not. His pulse raced in his ears, but his skin grew cold. It was too late. It was all over. If Lillian died, Alistair wished to be buried with her. Life was not worth living.
The physician laid his hands on Alistair’s shoulder and embraced him as if they’d known each other all their lives.
“She’s going to be all right,” the doctor said quietly. He gripped Alistair’s arms. “You hear me? She’s going to be all right. Don’t give up hope. You’re not going to lose her.”
Alistair finally allowed himself to cry.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
By the next day, the only people who hadn’t quit the sanctuary were Alistair, Lillian, and Violet. Alistair had stayed by his daughter’s side all day and all night, too intent upon his task of reapplying ointments to even register the cramping in his muscles or the bruising of his knees.
Violet, for her part, had not moved from the far corner. He had not yet spoken to her, and she had not dared approach. She remai
ned crumpled in a ball; tiny, silent, rocking ever so slightly as if buffeted by an unseen wind.
She should’ve been more careful.
So should he.
He could now admit that the fault was not just hers. She would not have left if he had not driven her to it. And now look what they had done. What he had done. He hated that his lie had ruined what they’d felt between them. Had caused her to feel she had no choice but to leave. Had incited his daughter to chase her. He could blame Violet as much as he liked, but he was drowning in an even greater amount of guilt. He could bear it no longer.
Heart twisting, he corked the ointment and struggled to his feet. “Violet ... ”
Lillian’s eyes snapped open and the tips of her burnt fingers scratched across the leg of his breeches. “Not her fault, Papa.”
Violet stared sightlessly from across the room, her face small, her eyes bruised and haunted.
“She is certainly not blameless. My daughter’s life never should have been in danger.”
Violet flinched, but made no attempt to defend herself.
Alistair’s gaze returned to Lillian’s ruined face. “But who is at fault? Should I blame Violet for leaving? You, for chasing after her? Myself, for driving away both the women I love? All of us are to blame. And it shall not happen again.”
Lillian glared up at him for a moment, then brightened. “See?” she called out. “I told you he loved you!”
This was rewarded by a choking half-sob from the corner.
He blinked. It was true. And he should have told her so much sooner. Was there still hope for trust between them? He crossed over to the corner where Violet still sat, hugging her knees. She didn’t look up. Alistair swallowed. This moment would define them forever—and it was up to him. He held out his hand. Whether she took it was up to her.
