Duke of Camellias

THIRTY-THREE

The next day, Morris found Blair at the cemetery, and brought him to his house, carrying his trunk, the leather cracking, and his face was nearly white. News travelled quick, and someone had saw him at the cemetery and Morris heard, and immediately knew the boy who kept to himself wouldn't dare impose on anyone.

Therefore he had to go and get him himself. The two didn't speak when they saw one another, and Morris told him he was going to his house. Blair couldn't find it in him to refuse.

Once there at the house, Blair nearly fainted at the kitchen, and Morris dragged him to his bedroom and piled his on his bed, tugging off his jacket and shoes, and his socks were damps. His wife, Daphne, prepared water and a towel, and asked Morris what was the matter with the boy. Morris could only shrug; the boy refused to talk the whole duration, only giving weak shakes and nods of his head. He wiped Blair's brow and chest and then rubbed his feet until they were dry.

"Blair has probably got a chill from staying there all night."

"Look at him," Daphne cried, "his eyes are red and swollen!" Morris grimaced. He had noticed, but knew better to ask. If he left the Duke's place, there could only be one conclusion. He decided against telling his wife Blair had stayed at a murderer's house for nearly half an year. 

"I'll stay by his side," he murmured.

It was nearly midday when Blair woke up, and even then, he was only half-conscious, asking where he was multiple times before having wheat bread and watery porridge then falling asleep again.

Daphne asked if they should call for a doctor, but Morris decided to wait. Instead, he told his wife he'd return soon and took a carriage to London. He had memorized Laurence's address, for he had went multiple times bringing him food his wife made, as the writer, in a similar way to Blair, hardly took care of himself, and had no one to spent holidays with. When he arrived in the bustling town, he made his way into the less idolized streets and Laurence's place. He knocked at the door, and Laurence opened the door, in an unbuttoned shirt smeared with ink and wrinkled pants.

"Morris!" He frowned. "What's the matter? You look terrible."

"It's about Blair."

"Blair? Is he in danger?"

"No, he's at my house right now." Laurence's jaw fell open.

"Why? Did something happen with the Duke?" Morris scratched at his head.

"That is what it seems like, but he's asleep. He spent all night at the cemetery."

"What?"

"Before his sister's grave, you see."

"All night? The snow has only just melted!"

"Yes, I know," Morris said with a sigh. "I don't know what to do, the poor boy looks so sickly. Would you mind coming along and cheering him up?"

"Of course not. Give me a moment, and I'll come with you."

After Laurence got dressed, he hailed a brougham and with Morris, they got on and arrived at his house right after evening. Daphne told them he still didn't wake up, and they went into the room, three people crowded together. There Blair laid on the bed, face nearly colorless, lips chapped, and groaned in his sleep. When Blair woke again, it was night, and he found two familiar faces.

"Morris? Laurence?" he croaked out. "Why am I here?" He tried to move, but only lifted his head a bit before falling down again.

"You fainted," Morris stated. "How are you feeling? Are you able to stomach anything down?"