His hands went to the fluid belt.
“Let me do that.” Artemisia moved his fingers away.
“I don’t want you—”
But she’d dispelled the suction and whisked it off him and into the container to be studied before he finished his sentence.
He drew in a long and uneven breath, seemed wobbly sitting up, but she wasn’t going to say a thing.
“Want a waterfall,” he grumbled. “Feel filthy.”
“You had a full sponge bath a septhour ago,” Artemisia said.
This time his gaze was hot and deadly. “Did you do it?”
“Of course.”
His jaw flexed.
“You must be examined by the FirstLevel Healers,” TQ admonished.
Garrett mumbled a curse.
The alarm from the decontamination field sounded loud and raucously and three people stepped into the bedroom. Artemisia withdrew to her chair as Lark Holly rounded the bed to take her place, and the Heathers stopped on the other side.
“Incredible.” GrandLord T’Heather’s shaggy eyebrows rose. “You’re awake and sitting up. Look a little rough, though. I suppose it felt as if you crawled down to the Cave of the Dark Goddess and back.”
“Exactly,” Garrett said, and his shoulders relaxed. Artemisia wasn’t sure whether it was having the greatest Healer on Celta in the room or having another man with him that changed his attitude.
“Don’t need all these people in my bedroom right now,” Garrett said. He stared at her, then switched to Lark Holly.
T’Heather rumbled a laugh, snagged a large water bottle, gave it to Garrett. “Must be dry; drink up, son.”
“Thanks. My fluid belt is in the damn canister.”
“Of course,” said Ura Heather.
“TQ, can you report?” Lark Holly asked.
“Garrett Primross’s levels of the microbes of the Iasc sickness are decreasing. If his recovery follows the same steep arc of his succumbing to the illness, he will be free of Iasc by NightBell and could leave here by NoonBell tomorrow.”
Garrett made a satisfied noise.
TQ continued, “This room has a medium level of the Iasc sickness microbes. I will sterilize it after everyone leaves tomorrow. The sitting room has a very low level of Iasc, and the dressing room and Artemisia’s bedroom has a low infestation of the microbes.”
Everyone stared at Artemisia. She stood straight. “I followed all the procedures and am perfectly fine.”
“That is correct,” TQ said. “The levels of the sickness in the dressing room and adjacent bedroom are below our original projections. SecondLevel Healer Panax herself has no microbes of the virus within her.”
“Success!” Ura Heather said.
“Yes, but the whole reason for this experiment was to study GentleSir Primross’s blood and determine how he survived the most virulent sickness and whether we could develop a precautionary serum or cure,” Lark said. “And Artemisia should be examined, too.” Lark went toward the door of the sitting room and gestured to Artemisia. “Come along, I’ll check you in here.”
Garrett grinned at her with a certain amount of glee. Then he yelped and his expression turned to surprised horror as he stared at a small lump under the cover by his foot. “What is it? Get it off me!”
T’Heather yanked up the cover and roared with laughter at the beige kitten with brown spots sitting on Garrett’s foot.
I am his Fam, the little cat said.
Glaring, Garrett said, “I don’t recall agreeing to that.”
The kitten ignored him. I was very helpful, wasn’t I?
“Very,” Artemisia murmured, returning Garrett’s smile with an overly sweet one of her own as she entered the sitting room.
Stubby tail straight up, the kitten walked up Garrett’s shin and to his thigh before T’Heather’s hand engulfed him. “Why don’t you sit on the table here.”
“You can supervise,” Lark Holly said, sounding as if she said those words often.
“Continuing my report,” TQ said, “I have scanned all my space and have no cell of the illness beyond these rooms.”
“Good job!” T’Heather said. “Now let’s check you out, young man.”
Lark gripped Artemisia’s upper arm. “And I’ll do your examination. You look weary.”
“It wasn’t an easy project,” Artemisia said, and wondered when she could go home. And wondered why the idea of going home didn’t bring a rush of joy.
“Strong, active men are rarely good patients,” Lark murmured.
“Here, Ura,” T’Heather said to his daughter. “You want all the blood and fluid samples and the reports. Take ’em home to one of T’Heather Residence’s sterile rooms.”
“I have sent you and T’Heather Residence all my raw data,” TQ said.
“Thank you, Father.” FirstLevel Healer Ura Heather gave a little cough. “Thank you, Turquoise House.”
“You are welcome,” TQ responded.
Ura Heather nodded, organized the various containers, and teleported away with the samples.
Artemisia admitted to herself that she was glad to see the head of Primary HealingHall go.
Lark’s examination was quick and professional, the results what Artemisia expected. She was a little dehydrated and exhausted. She didn’t show any signs of the sickness.
Lark shook her head. “I wish you had had relief, another Healer. The Turquoise House is wonderful at monitoring, and can manipulate the atmosphere in amazing ways, but it doesn’t have hands, or physicality.”
“I was fine.” She wasn’t about to mention the med-tech. Yesterday seemed like years gone, anyway.
“You certainly were. And you didn’t get the disease. What I saw of the studies is promising. I really want to develop a prophylactic for the sickness from Primross’s blood.”
“Everyone wants that,” Artemisia commented. “Him, too, or he wouldn’t have suffered through this.”
Lark stared at her sharply.
Artemisia raised her hands, palms up. “I have great admiration for him. I comported myself professionally,” she said before she remembered the time during TransitionBell when she sat by his bed and stroked his forehead, bathed his face, held his hand.
“Hmm.” Lark went to the no-time food storage and took out a large bowl of furrabeast stew, set it on an old table. “Eat.”
“I smell good food. Furrabeast. I want some of that,” Garrett called from the other room.
T’Heather said, “You get clucker soup.”
Garrett groaned.
“Here, this is for you, a token of appreciation from me,” Lark said. “It is free of any Iasc germs and has a decontamination spell woven in every fiber.”
With wide eyes, Artemisia accepted the robe of silver-shot gray silkeen Lark had translocated into the room. “Thank you.”
She hadn’t had such a garment since her teens before her Family had been disgraced. She wrapped it around her, letting the soft fabric slide against her skin in comfort. She had risen to the task she’d been assigned and done well, had survived. Had accompanied a man down the path to the Cave of the Dark Goddess and helped him fight the disease and return.
Relief began to trickle through her and she welcomed it. As she picked up the spoon and sat to eat, her tiredness changed from struggling to give her best to a patient to the satisfied triumph of seeing a sickness beaten.
Furrabeast stew wasn’t her favorite, but the smell tantalized and the big chunks of vegetables in it made her mouth water. Her fingers wanted to dip the spoon into the bowl faster and faster, taste the rich broth, so she controlled them. As she ate, she let the familiar sounds of Healers around her, the robe, and the simple meal reassure her down to her quietly pumping heart that she was safe, that she’d done wel
l, and all would be well in the future. Her current trial was done.
And Lark Holly was pampering her. Lovely. Artemisia wanted to hope her job was secure, but couldn’t forget the chill in Healer Ura Heather’s eyes.
* * *
T’Heather’s gaze was on Garrett as he ate his clucker soup. Garrett was full but hadn’t given up because he’d eaten only a tiny amount. Odd how having nutrients transferred into his blood directly made a man’s stomach shrink. He wouldn’t be eating a large and thick steak for a while and that was perturbing. He liked his meat.
The kitten had eaten as much as he. Right next to him on his bed. Didn’t look like he’d be getting rid of the thing anytime soon.
It was good spending time with a guy, listening to the older Healer. Garrett had figured he’d like T’Heather if he got to know the man.
“So,” T’Heather said casually, “tell me why you wanted SecondLevel Healer Artemisia Mugwort out of the room.”
Garrett choked. On broth.
Thirteen
Garrett coughed until the Healer put a large hand on his chest and tweaked his insides and Garrett breathed easily again. “Nice trick,” he gasped out.
The man shrugged heavy shoulders. “Simple.” T’Heather’s shrewd gaze seemed to look inside Garrett’s head. He wasn’t used to talking with older FirstFamily Lords with such great Flair. Then T’Heather raised a hand. “I know why you avoid Healer Mugwort. You are very attracted to her and don’t want to be.”
She is kind, said the kitten.
Grunting, Garrett picked up a small hunk of bread, sopped up the last of the clucker soup, and stuffed it in his mouth. When he was done chewing, he said, “Thanks for coming by.”
The GrandLord’s face was serious as he responded. “You’re clear, son. You have done all of Celta a great service.”
I know, said the kitten.
Garrett felt himself flush—with embarrassment this time, not fever, thank the Lord and Lady. “Anyone would have done the same.”
“Maybe, maybe not. The FirstFamilies won’t be forgetting this, I assure you.”
“Good to know.”
Lark Holly strolled in from the sitting room. “Nor will history. I am sure that with all the information this project provided us with, as well as your blood samples, we will be able to control the Iasc sickness.” She curtseyed deeply to Garrett. “Thank you.”
“Welcome,” he said.
WELCOME, said his Fam.
She turned to T’Heather. “With your permission, I would like to return home.”
“Go,” the lord said.
A nod to Garrett, then she walked back through the decontamination spellshield and forcefield, and when TQ declared she was clean of any Iasc cells, she teleported away.
Before Artemisia could return, Garrett flung off the thin sheet and held out a hand to T’Heather. “Help me into that damn waterfall, will you?”
The Healer eyed him professionally. “Looks like you dropped some weight, still a good figure of a man, shouldn’t worry about scaring the ladies.” The lord yanked him up smoothly and set his thick arm under Garrett’s. “Except for your face, of course. Grim, son, grim.”
Garrett snorted.
T’Heather grinned. “I’ll wait in the dressing room while you cleanse.”
Me, too, said the little cat, trotting after them. The lord deftly kept them from tripping on the Fam.
Garrett scowled. “I don’t need anyone.”
T’Heather laughed. “Oh, son, you are so wrong.”
“I don’t need you, either.” Garrett glared at the kitten.
The tiny spotted cat lifted his nose. I am Rusby. I named Myself with a Primrose name. My friend TQ listed Me names and I liked Rusby best.
“I’m a distant offshoot of the Primrose Family. I go by Primross,” Garrett said.
The cat sniffed.
He stared into little yellow eyes. “I don’t need a Fam.”
The small white and spotted muzzle lifted. I want a FamMan and you will do.
T’Heather coughed. “I’ve found that young cats can be stubborn.”
Yes, Rusby said.
Garrett had found that all cats could be stubborn and they all wanted their own way. Sometimes you could negotiate, sometimes bargain, sometimes cajole, often blackmail. Didn’t make living with them any easier.
“Get in the waterfall and wash some sense into your hard head,” T’Heather said.
* * *
Smoothing her new robe, Artemisia stepped into the bedroom. Already it looked less of a sickroom. She moved quickly through the dressing room—overfull with Garrett in the waterfall, T’Heather examining her medical setup, and the cat on one of the cabinets.
TQ had new linens for her bedsponge and she dumped the old ones in one of his canisters.
While Garrett luxuriated under a strong and pulsing waterfall, she remade both beds. Soon everything in the rooms would be ash—a pity about the furniture, but Artemisia was glad she’d had the expensive bed. It had been so much better than a cot.
She and Garrett were exhausted, but TQ would watch them this last day and night, then they would leave at noon. Since the man was back to politely avoiding her, she didn’t think she would see him again. Stupid to miss someone she’d known only a couple of days, and not much of that when he’d been healthy.
She hoped his nightmare memories had finally burned out. That his reliving the loss of his lover was a final ending to his grief. Oddly enough, Artemisia thought she’d sensed some of those dreams, they had been so intense . . . and she had been the only other person in the House, and caring for him.
Or would the experience have stirred the loss up for him again?
She didn’t know. There had been grief in her life, but death had never claimed someone she’d loved. She’d been lucky in that. Her whole Family had. A blessing she hadn’t realized.
Looking inside herself, she believed she’d changed, too, grown a little tougher. In the depths of the night, when she was weary and fearful, she’d had only herself to rely on. TQ was there, if she’d wanted to talk, but he had respected her aloneness. Not loneliness, exactly, but aloneness.
She’d been alone for the first time in her life. Her previous lovers had lived in a building with others, or in their Family homes. Being alone had been an odd feeling, but satisfying. She had come through the pressures of the experiment. And if those pressures hadn’t been too difficult, they were still more than she’d ever faced. She would have to thank her Family for the blessing ritual again.
She heard the waterfall turn off and male voices. Before she could hurry to help, GrandLord T’Heather filled the doorway, thick finger pointing at her. “You,” he said.
She squeezed her abused pillow tight. “Yes?”
“Good job, Mugwort. Leave the boy alone for now and go to sleep. That’s an order.”
She blinked, shrugged, glanced at her tempting bedsponge. “It’s the middle of the day.”
T’Heather chuckled. “I’ve been on round-the-clock jobs; surprised you know the time. You need sleep, girl; take some. You’ll be busy enough once you get back to Primary HealingHall.”
A little bump of the heart, of hope. “Yes, GrandLord.”
He nodded, stepped back, and closed her door.
* * *
Garrett surfaced to clogged-hearing silence. Yawning, his ears popped and night bird tweets trilled.
Yes, too quiet. The quiet of no one in his room. His HeartMate was gone. He was alone in the dark. He uncurled from a fetal curl, groaned, and struggled to an elbow.
“You are awake again,” said the smooth voice of the Turquoise House.
“Yeah. Light?” He coughed.
“Say when,” TQ said as a glow began around the ceiling, banishing t
he night to dimness.
“When!” Garrett blinked stinging eyes. A little more than when.
The lights faded.
“Don’t—”
“You were blinking. For many sicknesses it is appropriate to press recovery, but not the Iasc, and not when you’ve fought the sickness every second of three days.”
Garrett tried to sit up, couldn’t, couldn’t even get his elbow propped back under himself, and flopped back into the softness of the bedsponge. He’d thought he’d be stronger the second time he came around.
But the bedsponge was dry.
He sniffed. He didn’t smell too bad. And he didn’t recall any dreams. The fever must really be gone, and he hadn’t sweated. Probably still had a grim face.
Though his nose might be as plugged as his ears had been.
“Three days . . . that makes this?” His mind was too sluggish; he should be sharper.
“Twinmoonsday.”
“Uh.” He looked at the very white ceiling. Yeah, that hurt his eyes, but he thought he’d pried against crust to open his lashes and he didn’t want to close them again. He lifted his hand to rub his eyes and hit himself in the nose. “Dammit.”
“Your muscles are weak,” TQ said.
“Yeah, like I didn’t notice.”
“That is sarcasm.”
“That is right.”
“It is good that you are no longer in so much pain—”
“Who says I’m not?” Shifting on the sheet made every strand of muscle in his body ache in different ways. Some were too tight, some too lax, some cramped with outrageous strain.
“—and it is good that you are coherent.”
Garrett grimaced and felt dried drool around his mouth flake off. Maybe snot, too. A little reminder of the sickness.
“Where’s Artemisia? Isn’t she supposed to be caring for me?”
“She is feeding the feral animals. They have gathered from all over Druida the last few days to . . . sit vigil for you.”
“Huh.” His pleasure at the attention of the Fams mixed with irritation that Artemisia was giving them food and winning some loyalty. That reminded him. “What of my self-appointed Fam?”
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