The Sleeping Beauty's Tale by Grace D`Otare Page B

touch of his tongue, which led to a nip of his teeth. Biting the plump curve at the base of her thumb made her fingertips dance against his cheek.
    This wasn’t how their reunion should be. He’d been gone nearly a month, trading, checking traps. He’d returned to find her asleep in the middle of the day, feverish. The only outward sign of illness had been a tender redness on the sole of her foot. He’d ridden for Nan that afternoon.
    The abstinence created by their time apart always snarled him. Made him surly. And strangely tired, as if life wore him down more easily. He’d decided that Polly was a nourishment. Her company, of course, but also her skin, the sweep of her hair, her buried heat. When he hadn’t wet his mouth with hers, used her until they both dripped with exhaustion, when he hadn’t disappeared into the soft darkness of their bed, of her body, he simply wasn’t himself.
    She knew it, too. She was always waiting when he returned. Always welcoming.
    Still, he never knew she burned the same. His cock throbbed to the beat of his heart. She touched herself and called for him. He must have nourished something in her, as well.
    Hale had to clear his throat to form the words. “Has she taken any broth?”
    â€œNot since morning.”
    Polly’s head twisted against the pillow, disturbing the blankets that covered her. The sheer white cloth of her gown revealed the shadowed curves of her breasts. The darker rose of her nipples had tightened to stiffness. The keen memory of that little pebble against his tongue sent a rush of liquid to his mouth.
    â€œHale?” his wife whispered.
    â€œI’m here. Can you hear me, Poll? Open your eyes.”
    â€œI don’t think she can, dear. It’s fever talking now.”
    Hale touched the back of his hand to her forehead and then, her cheek. “She’s so…hot.”
    â€œPoison’s spread.” The squeak of the rocking chair stopped. “Be a while before we know.”
    â€œKnow?”
    Impossible. He wouldn’t hear it.
    â€œNo! What else can we do? Anything. Everything. Tell me.”
    â€œWe’re an ocean and some odd miles from the nearest Papist miracle well, Mr. Hale. Short of that, you need to prepare yourself.”
    He would need more than a miracle well to survive without Polly. From that thought, an idea bubbled. A miracle well.
    â€œThe spring.”
    Nan shook her sad slowly. “If the poison takes her, she won’t last the week, much less until the—”
    â€œThe hot spring. Up north of the lake. Where the Abenaki take their sick.”
    The woman’s embroidery hoop clacked against the pine floor. “You’re not serious.”
    â€œCan’t believe I didn’t think of it before.” He stood, already ordering his mind to what they would need. “It’s a hot spring. I’ve seen it heal men with wounds far worse.”
    â€œShe’s weak to be moving.” The woman’s index finger tapped restlessly against the rocker’s arm, marking time on her objections.
    â€œI’ll take the small cart. She can lie flat. We’ll be there before the moon fully rises.”
    â€œYou’ll have to submerge the whole leg, the longer the better. And keep her warm.”
    â€œI can do that.”
    â€œIt may not help. You understand?”
    Hale refused to speak to that thought. “I’m going to rig the cart and make a palette.”
    Â 
    The night was clear and cold. Hale forced their passage along a path meant to be traveled on foot. The cart shuddered over rocks and squeaked as it squeezed between trees.
    Polly never made a sound.
    Her silence drove him faster. And gave him time to think. He relived each moment at her bedside a hundred times, inhaling icy air, exhaling heat.
    What pleasure haunted her dreams? Was it a memory? A type of touch? Or was it some unspoken secret? Something she’d hidden, the way