Steelhands - Jaida Jones [69]
“Sorry ’bout the mess,” Laure moaned from the bed.
I closed my eyes, resigning myself to opening a window—for the smell, of course—which would let all the cold air in. And it was nearly impossible to build up any kind of warmth in my room, especially after the sun set.
“Don’t think about it for a second longer,” I said, trying to sound soothing and instead sounding strained. “You aren’t feeling well. What did the physicians say? Please take my mind off this awful task.”
“Didn’t say anything,” Laure replied. I heard her shifting in the bed, and when I looked back at her, she’d pulled the covers up over her head. The rest of her reply came out muffled, and I had to strain to hear it. “Didn’t tell me I was sick or anything, just sent me on my way and told me to come back next week.”
“What incompetents,” I said, feeling extremely indignant. “I’ll … I’ll write to your father at once.”
“Bastion, Toverre, don’t do that,” Laure replied. “I don’t want him worrying for nothing, or thinking I can’t take care of myself.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “This is hardly nothing.”
“Just felt a little dizzy, that’s all,” Laure insisted. “Bet I don’t even have a fever.”
With great care, I peeled my gloves off my hands and dropped them into the bucket, along with the rest of the mess I’d managed to clean up. It was all garbage now; I could never look at them again, much less wear them, without being reminded of this awful event. I crossed the room to open the window by the bed just a bare inch, then sat down on the mattress beside Laure, hesitating before I peeled the blanket back.
Her face was flushed, her eyes bright. She looked for all the world as though she’d caught whatever fever Gaeth had been suffering from when last we’d met him. Which, bastion help us all, meant I was bound to catch it next.
I pressed the back of my hand against her brow the way my mother had when I was sick—and I’d been a sickly child, suffering every winter for months without fail. If I was to become ill with this disease, then I’d likely caught it already, and there was no further use in being careful. Besides which, Laure’s health was currently more important. She was the one who was suffering.
“You most certainly do have a fever,” I told her. I managed to gentle myself, as I knew—sometimes—my attitude was what some might consider abrasive. “Is there anything I can get for you? A glass of water, perhaps?”
“Sure,” Laure said. “But get that bucket of my stink out of here first. I know you’re dying to.”
“Dying” being the operative word, I thought but didn’t say, as that would have been cruel. Laure was rarely ever sick—I could only remember her having a fever once, and we’d known each other practically since birth. It must have been very awful indeed if it managed to catch her unawares.
“I’ll be right back,” I told her, patting her on the shoulder. I cleverly fashioned a mask for myself out of one of her scarves; I also took her gloves, so that I could permit myself to touch the handle of the bucket.
It swayed sickeningly when I picked it up, and I kept my eyes fixed resolutely ahead of me, so that I would not be drawn in by morbid fascination and accidentally look down. This was the stuff of which nightmares were made. I had no desire to torture myself further than I was already being tortured.
To my great relief, the hall in the first-year dormitory was blessedly empty of my raucous peers, each under the impression that his or her importance lay in direct correlation with how much noise they were able to make. While I was attempting to study, or while I was attempting to sleep, no one else’s comfort seemed to matter much to my fellow dorm mates. Not when they could organize a rousing indoor