Cinderella

Fever

The captain had spoken the truth-no one dared glance her way as the pair of them weaved around the tents, some even turning completely around, so that their backs were to them. At their fear, Mariette's stomach turned; was she to spend so much time with a man that invoked such a fear? And when would she begin to witness the actions that caused this? But she lifted her chin, took a few breaths, and steeled herself to be strong. No one was coming for them now. Everything was in her hands. She couldn't afford to crack.

"Here we are," the captain interrupted her thoughts, lifting the flap of the tent in front of them. He ushered her inside the unlit enclosure.

Mariette's eyes raked over the floor, hunting for him, but none of the blankets moved, no sound was made. "Where is he?"

The captain nodded toward the largest pile of blankets. "Somewhere in that mess. We weren't sure of any methods of treatment, but he seemed to be running a fever."

Itching to dash at the pile, she timidly asked, "May I?"

The captain nodded. "Of course. I have a few things to do, so I'll be busy for most of the morning, but if you become bored if this nursing business,"-in the dark, she barely caught his wink-"I'm sure I could be of service."

Mariette shuddered. "Thank you, captain."

He nodded and left the tent. Not a breath after the tent flap fell shut, Mariette was rushing at the pile of blankets, pulling them away one at a time. When she reached the bottom, she gasped. He was so pale, his skin like the porcelain plates her father had once owned. He was covered in a sheath of sweat, glistening against the barest amount of light that slipped through the tent flaps. His cheeks were blushed a vibrant red, as were his lips.

"Oh, your highness...," she whispered despairingly, brushing her hand over his damp forehead. "Whatever am I going to do with you?"

For a moment, he stirred, and her heart raced. Perhaps he would be all right...perhaps she'd misjudged the severity of the fever, and he'd open his eyes and laugh at her concern. But then he was still, and she sighed.

She remembered once, as a child, a dear maid of hers had contracted a fever and had been unable to work. Auntie hadn't dared let the maid near her, lest she catch the fever. She remembered how she'd been so curious, and slipped out of her room in the night, and made her nearly silent way to the maid's courters. She'd just taken a brief glimpse, but that had been enough. The woman was convulsing, her eyes glazed, her mouth open, and Mariette had known with an absolute certainty that the woman would be dead by morning.

The prince looked like that, aside from the convulsions. She couldn't understand how the captain had failed to notice how bad his condition was.

"Wake up, you highness," Mariette whispered, touching his hair and face. "Wake up and live. Please. For your kingdom. For me."

He did not move.

Despite her undeniable love for Winslow, she couldn't help but still feel lingering tenderness toward His Highness....despite his harsh words, despite his cruelty. Despite herself.

"Please, your highness," she whimpered.

The prince sucked in a shallow breath and breathed one small, shallow word. "Mariette."

Mariette gasped, "Your highness!" Uncaring about his fever, she placed an exuberant kiss on his cheek and hugged herself to him.

He didn't open his eyes, but his breathing was coming more regularly, and his chest was rising and falling against hers sporadically. "Told you...call me...Alex."

Mariette laughed shakily and sat up. "No, I distinctly recall a very harsh command to refer to you as "your highness" during our last meeting."

He lolled his head to the side. "Sorry. Didn't mean it."

She smiled slightly. "I know. Rest, now. You'll see me regularly."

"Am I dreaming?"

Mariette frowned, wondering if he was lucid. "No, you're simply a tad sick."

His clammy, shaky hand slid into hers and she squeezed it, knowing he didn't have the strength too. "Dreamed of you...before...sorry...what I said..."

"Sh," Mariette whispered, pushing his sticky hair out of his face. "I'm not angry. I just want you better. Are you dizzy? Confused?"

"Confused," he mumbled. "Where..."

Mariette didn't have the heart to remind him that he'd been captured by criminals. She said simply, "With me. Safe."

"Want to be with you," he mumbled.

"I know," she whispered. "And you're going to get better, I promise." Mariette had even begun to believe it herself. In the short time they'd been speaking, his color had improved and his breathing was coming more regularly. He was still dreadfully warm, but his sentences had been coming more easily, the last almost a perfect statement.

His hand almost tightened around hers-she felt the barest amount of pressure before it loosened again. "Love you, Mariette."

She froze. He wasn't lucid, she reminded herself, he didn't know what he was saying. He probably didn't even realize he was speaking.

"Love you," he said again.

Mariette felt an old, abandoned part of her heart twinge. "You don't," she reminded him. "You don't love me. I don't believe you ever have."

"Always have," he whispered. "Always." Then he whispered the last thing she ever expected him to. "Emeline..."