seconds to decipher the question. “I—no. We hadn’t a chance to discuss it. She is ill with a headache.”
“A common excuse, I believe, when a female does not wish to cooperate.” Shivaji rose in a single, fluid motion. “We shall walk no farther on this false trail. You will prepare to depart in the early morning.”
“Aren’t you listening?” Duran seized a handful of Shivaji’s tunic. “She’s ill . Everything hurts her. Sound. Light. She can’t bear to be touched. Look, there must be something in your demon’s closet to help her. Laudanum?”
Shivaji studied him for several moments, as if seeking something in his face. “Is the pain concentrated on one side of her head?”
Duran tried to remember how she had looked. What she had said. “I don’t know,” he admitted, releasing his grip and taking a step back. “Is that significant?”
“It is usually the case. I suspect she suffers from a type of severe, recurring headache that generally afflicts women, although I have an uncle who experiences them regularly.” Shivaji went to the wooden cabinet, which was set on a small table in the corner of the dressing room, and began removing vials and packets from the drawers. “There is no remedy. In safe amounts laudanum is ineffective, and it can create a harmful dependency. Will the Lady Jessica permit me to examine her?”
“She doesn’t want anyone to know. I insisted on keeping watch. She asked for ice.”
“Very well. I shall prepare a draught of lavender tea infused with cloves and feverfew, and brew a tea with ginger root that should be given her if she is nauseated. Since you are to sit with her, perhaps you will wish to change your clothing. Do so while I send Arjuna to procure what is required. Then I shall tell you what to expect and how to deal with it.”
Half an hour later, a cyclone of instructions whirling in his head, Duran reentered Jessica’s darkened bedchamber with a large tray carefully balanced between two shaking hands. On it were a pair of teapots, a glass and a cup, a small silver bucket filled with ice, another brimming with hot water, a pile of linen napkins and towels, and three basins stacked one on top of the other. Arjuna would be sent at intervals to replenish the supplies.
“Sleep is best,” Shivaji had advised several times. “Never disturb her when she sleeps, and do not be so busy trying to help that you keep her awake.”
She wasn’t sleeping now. Duran set the tray on a table near the door, moved the lone candle to a spot on the mantelpiece where its light did not reach the bed, and approached her on stockinged feet. “Can you swallow some lukewarm tea? It’s made with herbs that may dull the pain a bit. I have ice, if you prefer. But I’m told it’s best to wrap the ice in towels and—”
When she winced he clamped his lips together, mentally kicking himself.
At the corners, her mouth curved. “Tea,” she said on a puff of air.
Relief made him clumsy, but he managed to fill the cup and carry it to the bed without spilling more than half the contents. She had struggled upright. He put one hand at her back to hold her while she drank, a fragrance of lavender and cloves wafting from the cup and mingling with the delicate lilac scent she favored.
Her hair was pinned in coils. When she had emptied the cup he set it aside and, still holding her, began gently to remove the pins with his other hand. She leaned forward to make it easier. While he dealt with the side closest to him she experienced no difficulty, but when he touched the right side of her head, a cry escaped her.
Instantly he stopped, his hand hovering above her.
“It will feel better,” she whispered, “when the pins are out.”
Removing them was agonizing for her, he could tell, but she made no sound as one by one they slid free and her long, heavy hair spread around her shoulders. He banked pillows behind her—Shivaji had suggested that—and gave her a second cup of the
“A common excuse, I believe, when a female does not wish to cooperate.” Shivaji rose in a single, fluid motion. “We shall walk no farther on this false trail. You will prepare to depart in the early morning.”
“Aren’t you listening?” Duran seized a handful of Shivaji’s tunic. “She’s ill . Everything hurts her. Sound. Light. She can’t bear to be touched. Look, there must be something in your demon’s closet to help her. Laudanum?”
Shivaji studied him for several moments, as if seeking something in his face. “Is the pain concentrated on one side of her head?”
Duran tried to remember how she had looked. What she had said. “I don’t know,” he admitted, releasing his grip and taking a step back. “Is that significant?”
“It is usually the case. I suspect she suffers from a type of severe, recurring headache that generally afflicts women, although I have an uncle who experiences them regularly.” Shivaji went to the wooden cabinet, which was set on a small table in the corner of the dressing room, and began removing vials and packets from the drawers. “There is no remedy. In safe amounts laudanum is ineffective, and it can create a harmful dependency. Will the Lady Jessica permit me to examine her?”
“She doesn’t want anyone to know. I insisted on keeping watch. She asked for ice.”
“Very well. I shall prepare a draught of lavender tea infused with cloves and feverfew, and brew a tea with ginger root that should be given her if she is nauseated. Since you are to sit with her, perhaps you will wish to change your clothing. Do so while I send Arjuna to procure what is required. Then I shall tell you what to expect and how to deal with it.”
Half an hour later, a cyclone of instructions whirling in his head, Duran reentered Jessica’s darkened bedchamber with a large tray carefully balanced between two shaking hands. On it were a pair of teapots, a glass and a cup, a small silver bucket filled with ice, another brimming with hot water, a pile of linen napkins and towels, and three basins stacked one on top of the other. Arjuna would be sent at intervals to replenish the supplies.
“Sleep is best,” Shivaji had advised several times. “Never disturb her when she sleeps, and do not be so busy trying to help that you keep her awake.”
She wasn’t sleeping now. Duran set the tray on a table near the door, moved the lone candle to a spot on the mantelpiece where its light did not reach the bed, and approached her on stockinged feet. “Can you swallow some lukewarm tea? It’s made with herbs that may dull the pain a bit. I have ice, if you prefer. But I’m told it’s best to wrap the ice in towels and—”
When she winced he clamped his lips together, mentally kicking himself.
At the corners, her mouth curved. “Tea,” she said on a puff of air.
Relief made him clumsy, but he managed to fill the cup and carry it to the bed without spilling more than half the contents. She had struggled upright. He put one hand at her back to hold her while she drank, a fragrance of lavender and cloves wafting from the cup and mingling with the delicate lilac scent she favored.
Her hair was pinned in coils. When she had emptied the cup he set it aside and, still holding her, began gently to remove the pins with his other hand. She leaned forward to make it easier. While he dealt with the side closest to him she experienced no difficulty, but when he touched the right side of her head, a cry escaped her.
Instantly he stopped, his hand hovering above her.
“It will feel better,” she whispered, “when the pins are out.”
Removing them was agonizing for her, he could tell, but she made no sound as one by one they slid free and her long, heavy hair spread around her shoulders. He banked pillows behind her—Shivaji had suggested that—and gave her a second cup of the
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