The Headmistress of Rosemere by Sarah E Ladd

against the stark plaster wall in the narrow room. His presence was not needed, yet he could not make himself leave. He stared, unblinking, unbelieving, at the still child before him. It was a nightmare come to life. Her hair looked wild against the pillow, her lips appearing almost blue against her colorless skin.
    The women fussed over the child, but it was Miss Creighton’s voice he heard above the others’. “Mary, we need another bed warmer. Fetch it, will you? Quickly.”
    Mary abandoned her task of preparing the fire in the iron grate and hurried from the room. Spying his opportunity to be useful, William took her place and stoked the little flame she’d brought about, bringing it to a greater glow.
    Every movement raked the charred fabric of his sleeve against the burn on his arm. He ignored the throbbing sting as he set about his task. The scent of scorched linen and skin was enough to gag him, and so he stoked the fire harder. He stole a quick glanceat Miss Creighton. Her side was to him, her hand on the child’s forehead.
    He licked his dry lips. His injury was nothing compared to that of the little girl. “How is she?”
    At first he wondered if Miss Creighton had heard him. But then she straightened, pressing her hands to the small of her back, her eyes never leaving the child. “It is hard to tell, but I think her color is improving. Her breathing seems a bit easier.”
    The words seemed shallow and meaningless when compared to the magnitude of the situation. He brushed his hair from his forehead with his good arm. “She needs the surgeon. I will ride into town.”
    “Miss Baden said George has already gone for him.” Miss Creighton looked up at him as if just now realizing that he was in the room, and then her gaze landed on the blackened sleeve. She gasped. “You’ve been burned!”
    William didn’t look down at the wound. He did not need to see it. The pain was excruciating. For even in the bitter coolness of the closed-off room, fiery perspiration beaded on his forehead.
    Miss Creighton rushed toward him and placed her hand on his arm, but looked back at Miss Baden. “Mr. Sterling was burned. I will tend to it. Be sure to notify me if there is any change.”
    He shook his head. “No, I do not need—”
    But Miss Creighton picked up the candle and turned, ignoring his protest. “Follow me. We have salve and bandages.”
    With the child cared for and calm, and with the burn refusing to be ignored, William consented and followed her. A cough echoed from somewhere. The limp, damp fabric of Miss Creighton’s muddied dressing gown trailed her, and the single black braid bounced against her back with each hurried step. He almost had to run a bit to keep pace with her.
    He followed her back down the narrow, drafty staircase to thekitchen. The fire in the hearth was burning brightly, almost cheerfully, as if to mock the stable’s demon fire.
    Miss Creighton hesitated and then reached out her hand. “Here, let me help you.”
    It took him a moment to realize that she intended to help him with his coat. It was going to be a feat to remove it without inflicting even more pain, but the sleeve practically disintegrated, and her gentle touch was swift. Within moments the coat was off his body and on the chair next to him.
    “Come sit by the light,” she instructed, her tone raspy and matter-of-fact. She pulled the candle near and leaned close. “Rest your arm here.”
    He consented and positioned his arm so that the top of his forearm was facing her. “Really, Miss Creighton, there is no need—” But she paid him no heed. With long, slender fingers she rolled the linen fabric of his shirtsleeve, and he winced as she pulled the scorched fabric away from the wound. “My apologies,” she muttered, folding the fabric above his elbow and tucking it in place.
    He should protest. The child needed tending. And yet, the young woman’s feathery light touch intoxicated him. Soothed him. His breathing