“How much time has passed?” Elena’s voice was little more than a whisper, her words swallowed by the silence of the room.
She reached out a trembling hand to the space beside her, but her fingertips met only cold emptiness. A faint shiver ran through her.
With deliberate care, she pushed herself up on one arm. The bedsheet slid down her body in a soft cascade, pooling around her waist. Raising her hands to inspect them, she noticed the white cloth wrapping her palms, the herbal scent of salve drifting faintly in the air.
Her breath came shallow and labored as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The effort left her feeling as though her body were submerged in water, every movement slow and oppressively heavy. She reached out to draw back the curtain, revealing pale streaks of light spilling into the room.
“Cura,” she croaked, her voice rasping harshly in her throat.
The sound was softer than she intended, and it failed to rouse the figure slumped nearby. Cura sat in a chair, her head drooping forward, chin resting against her chest as she dozed.
“Cura,” Elena called again, mustering more strength this time.
Cura startled awake, her eyes widening. “Elena, are you feeling better?” she asked, quickly rising and hurrying to her mistress’s side.
Elena’s lips parted, but her mouth felt dry as sand. “His Grace… Has His Grace returned?” she managed, though every word felt like shards of glass scraping her throat. Wincing, she pressed a hand to her neck and swallowed hard, the pain sharp and unrelenting.
Cura’s expression softened with concern. She reached for a nearby pitcher, pouring water into a cup. “Not yet,” she replied, guiding the cup to Elena’s lips. “Here, drink.”
Elena took a few small sips before pulling back. Her chest rose and fell unevenly as she exhaled. “Then we still don’t know why the fire broke out?”
“No.” Cura shook her head, setting the cup aside. “But I’ve asked Butler Lassino to inform me the moment His Grace returns.”
“I see.” Elena’s voice had quieted, her thoughts seemingly far away.
She lowered her gaze to her hands, now resting in her lap. The pale skin, once vibrant, looked almost translucent. Bluish veins branched beneath the surface like faint rivers.
“Oh no, your hands are so cold—like ice,” Cura exclaimed, kneeling on the floor as she cradled Elena’s hands between her own. Her touch was gentle, her concern evident as she patted the back of Elena’s hands in an attempt to warm them.
“Elena, you should lie down a little longer,” she urged softly, her brow furrowed with worry.
“I’m fine,” Elena replied, her voice steadier than she felt. Though her body was leaden with exhaustion, her heart was heavier still, weighed down by a gnawing unease she couldn’t shake. Sitting idle felt unbearable.
Cura hesitated, searching Elena’s face, then sighed in resignation as Elena shook her head stubbornly. “Don’t worry,” she said, her tone firm but kind. “His Grace took the knights with him. Nothing will happen. You know better than anyone what kind of man he is.”
“That’s true, but…” Elena trailed off, unable to voice the creeping anxiety knotting her chest. Her lips pressed together as if trying to trap the words inside.
Cura studied her mistress in silence for a moment before rising gracefully to her feet. She tugged the sheets snugly around Elena’s shoulders with a maternal care, then moved to the table to pour warm tea into a delicate porcelain cup.
“At least drink this,” Cura said as she handed the teacup and saucer to Elena.
Elena accepted it, the familiar aroma of herbs drifting up to meet her. She stared at the steaming liquid, watching the faint ripples caused by the trembling of her hands. The cup rattled slightly against the saucer.
“You collapsed so suddenly earlier; I was terrified,” Cura admitted, her voice dropping as she sat in a nearby chair. Her hands rested on her lap, clasped tightly.
“I collapsed?” Elena asked, her gaze lifting to meet Cura’s.
“Yes. Don’t you remember?”
Elena shook her head slowly. “I don’t. I remember going up the wall, but… nothing after that. How did I get here?”
Cura’s lips thinned, pressing together as though she were trying to make them disappear. Her freckles, usually dancing with life, seemed dulled by the weight of the memory.
“Why?” Elena pressed, her unease growing.
“At first, you seemed dizzy and collapsed,” Cura explained, her tone laced with reluctance. “But then… you started crying, pleading to be saved.”
“I… cried and begged for help?” Elena’s voice wavered, disbelief etched across her face.
Cura nodded grimly. “Yes. No matter how much I called out to you, you didn’t respond. It was as if you couldn’t see me or the knights at all. You looked… utterly terrified.”
Elena’s hands tightened around the teacup, her knuckles paling as Cura continued.
“You kept muttering something,” Cura added, her voice softening with sadness. “But I couldn’t make out the words. Then you fainted, so we brought you here.”
Elena pressed her fingertips firmly against her temples, trying in vain to recall what had happened. The effort only deepened the pounding ache in her head, and she furrowed her brows in frustration.
“Does your head hurt?” Cura asked, springing to her feet. Concern etched across her face, she hurried over to Elena’s side. “I treated the wounds on your palms with herbs, but is there anywhere else that hurts?”
“It seems I’m fine, aside from the headache,” Elena replied, her tone measured despite the discomfort.
Cura crossed her arms, her lips pursing in mild annoyance. “I’ve asked the butler to summon Teacher Leto, but he’s still not here. Honestly, it’s like he’s hiding gold in the village or something.”
Despite Cura’s grumbling, Elena remained silent, her thoughts drifting elsewhere. She recalled a passing comment Leto had made about a tavern woman in the village—a memory that now felt oddly significant. Perhaps that woman was the reason he endured scoldings and lingered in the village longer than necessary.
