In the early XIXth century, a young woman called with the unusual name of Eleven escapes from a jail for heretics and witches organized by a religious sect, the Administrators of God's Souls. Little could Michael Wheeler know, son of a high class fa...
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The fever didn't seem too high.
With a dry cloth, Michael made his hand slide from her forehead to the ear, passing his fingers to the back of her head. Her hair were still wet from the rain and the sweat, and so her garments.
While he was riding, the girl had completely lost her senses, tired from the constant scare of thunders, the fatigue of two days in the cold, hunger and sleeplessness. Letting herself go, she had also lost the grip onto the horse's back, so Michael had to do a major effort to both hold her and control Rory in a way that it wasn't too fast, scared by the natural chaos.
They made it safe to the mansion: once they arrived, Michael gave his horse his shelter and carried Jane upstairs on his back, in the highest tower where his study was located.
When Michael put her on a long sofa, he realized that her face was pale, so he checked her wrist's pulse first; then, he took the cloak off her and made up a fire to dry her up, to let her have some warmth; made her drink some water with sugar and mint - Jane coughed -, and started rubbing some ointment on the red bruises upon her ankles.
It seemed like those were chained for a very long time, because shades of blue and violet were hidden under the more recent red scratches. Michael stopped the bleeding and wrapped the ankles with some gauze; then, he waited next to her, gently brushing her hand to warm it up, so she could come up to her senses.
After some minutes, she opened up her eyes.
That room was nothing like she imagined she would ever be in.
It was circular and very large, surrounded all over by books and tapestry with medieval images of hunting or famous mythological scenes.
Various low-light lamps and some alabasters encircled the room, which was split in two sides: the first one had the entrance, the sofa where Jane was laid, and other two armchairs at its sides; they all surrounded a short, long table with a mess of papers and writings, and strange little models of paladins, wizards or princesses were randomly scattered on the table and on the carpet. Everything was enlightened by the fireplace, which was not too distant. The second half of the room looked more properly like a study, introduced by three small steps that led to a higher level, with a wood desk - full of messy papers, a world map and some books, again - and a big circular double bed with a red blanket. A giant window towered the desk, covered by red curtains; all around, books written in different languages, and a little closed door that led who-knows-where.
She felt a sort of dizziness. Her head was so heavy she couldn't properly remember how she even got there in first place. Then a familiar voice spoke:
«Hey... are you alright? Can you answer me?»
Jane focused her sight on the figure that was stroking her hand. The dark eyes of Michael were shining at the light of the fireplace.
She readily stood up and regretted it, as soon as she felt her bones cracking, and Michael gently pushed her back on the sofa, while her breaths got faster from anxiety.
