The Garden's End (MLM)

CHAPTER TWELVE.

                "I've just had the strangest dream," Pip said groggily, the first words to leave his lips as he woke. He found Miss Bradley hovering over him.

"Mm?" she smiled. "You oughtn't say what it was about, it may come true."

"Here, Pip," Mrs. Mary appeared behind Miss Bradley with a tray in her hands. She set it on the small nightstand between his and Charles's bed, and she helped him sit up against the pillows. "There you get now, up up up."

"I wasn't going to say what it was about," Pip murmured weakly and coughed. His face felt extraordinarily warm, and whether that was because of his temperature or because of what he'd seen last night, he couldn't be certain. But he knew of one thing; it was a dream. That's all it could've been.

He remembered the storm, still raging on outside now, and the library. Books upon books dimly lit with gold. And Lord Westcott.

He reached up, gently touching the cheek where he had felt Lord Westcott's touch the previous night. He remembered soft hands, not as soft as Oliver's, but soft, nonetheless. He remembered the faint smell of parchment and flowers, and he was certain then that he'd been dreaming. He could hardly smell anything at all, how would he have caught such a faint scent?

"Pip. Pip?"

Miss Bradley shook his shoulder, and Pip blinked out of his thoughts, letting his hand fall.

"S-Sorry?"

"You were staring off into nothing," said Miss Bradley.

"Where's Charles?" asked Pip, rubbing his eyes.

"He's helping with breakfast," said Mrs. Mary, tucking in next to Pip over the blankets and holding another steaming bowl of porridge in her hands. "Never you mind about Charles now. Here, Chef Blackwood made this for you. I expect you to eat every last spoon."

Pip groaned. "Mrs. Mary, please, I really don't have the stomach for anything."

Miss Bradley lightly slapped the side of his head. "Stop complaining," she demanded. "The physician said you were to have warm meals and rest in bed until your fever is properly gone. That fire"—she pointed at the flames in the fireplace—"will not be put out until you're sweating through the blankets. Understood?"

Without waiting for his response, she ruffled his hair and left.

"All right, you," Mrs. Mary nudged his side with her elbow to make him move on the bed, giving her more room to force spoons of porridge down his throat. "You heard Miss Bradley, stop complaining and eat!"

*

Robert hadn't slept. He lay awake in bed, the book he'd acquired from the library open in front of him, forgotten as he stared at a vase on his mantelpiece, his mind cloudier than the storm.

What had he been thinking? Touching Mr. Kensley like that! He probably thought his master was entitled, forcing himself on him during his weakest moments.

Robert shut his eyes and slumped in his bed with a groan under his breath. If only he could be buried in his sheets and never live to see the sun again. Perhaps then he could escape the endless escapade of questions that was sure to come when Mr. Kensley returned.

Except, of course, he would not return to work, not for a few days at the very least. Robert wondered what he was doing now. If he was asleep, if he was eating the porridge that he had asked Chef Blackwood to prepare.