My Lady Jane by Cynthia Hand

carried up the stairs to his bedchamber, and how he’d spent every moment since then in bed. He’d slept for the entire night and most of the morning, but had awakened to a feeling of bone-deep exhaustion, as if he had not slept a wink. And now he was being spoon fed like a toddler.
    He was dying, he finally admitted to himself.
    He’d known this before, of course, but now the idea seemed real. His strength had abandoned him, and he doubted it would ever return. The coughing fits were coming more frequently, and there was a lingering pain in his joints and spine. Even his head felt diluted, as if his thoughts had to work their way through a bank of clouds to reach him.
    He was dying.
    Already. Hadn’t it been less than a week ago that Master Boubou had given him six months to live? A year at best.
    He was dying, he thought numbly. Sooner than expected, apparently. Soup was of no consequence.
    â€œSire,” the nurse prodded.
    â€œLeave me,” he muttered, and when she did not move away quickly enough, he barked, “Leave me!” and Pet raised her head and bared her teeth at the old woman.
    Mistress Penne bustled away. Edward soothed Pet by resting his hand on the smooth space at the crown of her head and stroking. Her tail thumped again. He closed his eyes.
    Behind his eyelids he replayed Jane’s wedding. He remembered her standing in her wedding gown, all gold and silver and jewels, her red hair shining. He recalled the way Gifford’s gaze had swept over Jane as they had approached him, the flicker of surprise and definite male interest in his eyes before he’d forced his expression back into perfect blankness.
    When Edward had seen that flicker, he’d felt hope for Jane. That maybe this would be more than a marriage of convenience. That maybe she’d find love.
    He thought, I will never find love .
    He remembered the touch of Jane’s small, cool hand in the crook of his arm as he’d walked with her.
    He thought, I will never feel a woman’s touch .
    He remembered the way Jane’s cheeks had flushed when Gifford had tilted her face up to be kissed.
    He sighed. Pet scooched up on the bed and licked his chin. He pushed her head away, but resumed stroking her behind the ear.
    His last moment with Jane had been at the end of the night, when Lord Dudley had announced that it was time for the youngcouple to “turn in,” as he’d phrased it, and Jane had come to him to say good-bye. He’d known by the gleam in her dark eyes and the ramrod straight way that she was holding herself that she was both furious and terrified at what came next.
    The consummation.
    â€œJane,” he’d leaned to whisper in her ear. “Don’t fret. You’ll be all right.”
    â€œHe’s drunk,” she’d hissed. “So now we can add ‘inebriant’ to the list of his charms. A boozer. A lush. A tippler. A souse.”
    â€œYou will find something to like about him,” he’d answered, and kissed her cheek. “Be happy, cousin. For me.”
    Then Gifford had led her away. To their bedchamber.
    Edward thought, I am never going to consummate anything. I’m going to die a virgin.
    And he’d felt more sorry for himself than ever.
    The floor beside his bed creaked, and he opened his eyes. Master Boubou was hovering over him, and behind him Edward could make out the outline of Lord Dudley’s nose.
    The doctor took Edward’s hand and felt for a pulse at his wrist, then frowned.
    â€œSo it’s good news, is it?” Edward smiled at his own joke and was immediately overtaken by coughing.
    â€œI’m afraid not, Your Majesty,” said Boubou, when the coughs subsided. “You appear to have taken a turn for the worst. Your heart is very weak. Perhaps the wedding was simply too much exertion.”
    Edward resolved that he would never, ever, no matter how bad things got, regret being there for Jane at her