The Garden's End (MLM)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Pip was just sealing a letter when Charles woke up and found him sitting cross-legged against the wall. His friend sat up eagerly.

                "Pip!" he said. "You're all right!"

                "I think so," said Pip, touched his forehead, and stood. "I feel fine."

                "I don't believe that for one moment," grumbled Charles, nearly falling to the floor as he stumbled off the bed and caught his legs in the sheets. He stood straight in front of Pip, one hand on the back of his neck, the other pressing against his forehead, then his cheek, then the side of his neck. He blinked. "You feel fine."

                "Oh, get off," Pip waved his hands away. He had dressed the moment he'd woken. "I feel wonderful, actually."

                "So your fever's gone?"

                "And just in time," said Pip. "I have to send this letter to the post. I really don't want to be late again."

                "You and the post," Charles said with a sigh. "You almost got yourself killed the last time!"

                Pip took another coat from their closet and slung it over his shoulders. "No, my stubbornness is what almost got me killed. But I know better now."

                "Stop listening to Mr. Reed!" snapped Charles. "Just because he says something doesn't make it true!"

                Pip hesitated. "Did he—er—come by at all? While I was asleep? Did he . . . seem angry with me?"

                Charles blinked. "No, I don't think so. At least, I never saw him. Why?"

                "No reason," said Pip, his spirits dimming slightly. "I . . . only wanted to know whether I should be hiding in the halls or not. I suppose no reaction is better than a poor one."

                "Or a worse one," he muttered.

                "He—He was right to be upset with me," said Pip, but before Charles could respond, Pip kissed his cheek. "Thank you for taking such good care of me. I've got to go! Lord Westcott will want me in his chambers by six!"

                Tucking the letter into his coat, Pip left a flushed Charles in their room, and ran upstairs as quickly as his legs could carry him. He felt as if he could circle the whole of Devon, and he wanted to. He'd been trapped so long in his bed without an appetite for anything that he thought he could eat a king's breakfast and still not be full.

The sky was watered ink with puffs of clouds here and there, and it made Pip's heart soar. The storm had finally cleared, and he couldn't wait to be out in the gardens, to see the flowers again, to breathe the fresh crisp air. If only he had not spent so many days in bed, he might've sent his letter off to the post himself—and how he would've enjoyed the walk!—but he didn't think Lord Westcott would be thrilled about him taking more time off after what he'd already had.

                Lord Westcott. Pip slowed to a stop in the hallway of the third floor. He remembered dark eyes that pierced his own, a warm hand on his cheek. He'd been dreaming, of course he'd been dreaming, but it had felt so real. . . . Pip found himself touching his cheek again, trying to remember something else about that night, something Lord Westcott may have said. But he couldn't. That had to mean that he'd been dreaming . . . didn't it?

                Suddenly, a hand grabbed his arm and he was pulled into someone's chambers. He managed a gasp before Oliver covered his mouth with his hand, their bodies pressed together against the door.