Delia Prance's Arc

Chapter 23 of 59

Six mornings passed. Each dawn Delia measured the powder a little larger, watched Arden sweat and shake, and watched his breath come cleaner after. Now two doses remained in the jar. She counted them by candlelight and knew: give both, and he was cured or dead. There was no third try. Arden woke while she stood at the shelf. He had grown steadier in the warm cottage. The wet drag was gone from his chest. He watched her hands. "You're afraid of the last one," he said. Flat, like he read it off her back. "The dose is bigger now. Your body is stronger. But bigger means closer to poison." She set the jar down. "I won't lie to you." "No one here does." He said it plain, but something moved under it. He looked at the flower-vined books stacked by the hearth, the border of blooms out the window, the blue blanket he'd sweated through. "Nick got rooms like this his whole life. Warm. Someone sitting up with him." He met her eyes. "I didn't know a person could just be kind. With nothing owed back." "You owe me a house," Delia said, trying to lighten it. "That's a trade." Arden shook his head slow. "This isn't." He reached for her wrist, then stopped himself. His jaw set hard, but his eyes stayed on her too long. "I don't know what this is I feel. I've never had it aimed at me." Delia felt the weight of what he meant. She was married to his brother. She kept her hand still and her voice level. "It's being cared for," she said. "That's all. Anyone would give it to you. I'd give it to a stranger on the path." She said it kindly, but she said it clear. Arden held her look a moment more. Then he let it go. He nodded once, like a man setting down something heavy he couldn't keep. "Then finish it," he said. She mixed the seventh dose and gave it. He drank without pause. This time the shaking came worse. He gripped the bed rail, breath ragged, sweat sheeting his face. Delia stayed the whole night, wiping his brow, counting each breath. Near dawn the shaking stopped. His chest rose deep and even. No blood. No drag. She pressed her ear to him and heard clean air move. The eighth and last dose she never needed. He was cured on the seventh. Nick found them at first light. He looked at his brother sleeping easy, then at Delia's tired face. "He'll live," she said. "It's done." Arden opened his eyes. He looked at Nick standing in the doorway, then at Delia. "You built the house yet?" he asked her. "Because I'm well. I keep my word." But his gaze lingered on her a beat too long before he turned to the wall. Nick saw it. He said nothing. He only watched his brother, and kept it to himself.