The golden bird circled her head. “The plague?” She shuddered. “What the hell are we supposed to do with that? There’s a cure here, but I don’t have it. I think I can remember the mending spell. Do you think it would work for the plague?”
He fought the urge to shut his eyes. “Might as well try.” Oswald’s foxfire sphere drifted into the room, and Thomas took in the high ceiling painted like a night sky. From his spot on the floor, he could see the walls were painted in vibrant colors, made to look like scenes from tarot cards—a hanged man, a wheel of fortune, and the six of coins.
She crouched on the ground and pulled her white nightgown’s billowing sleeves up to her elbows. Closing her eyes, she stumbled through the mending spell a few times until she had it right. As soon as she incanted the final words, some of the pain in Thomas’s muscles subsided, but his lymph nodes still ached, and his skin still throbbed with the fever.
Celia grimaced, leaning over him. “Those grotesque lumps are still on your neck. I don’t think it worked.”
“I’m a little better,” he managed.
She crouched lower, wrapping an arm around his back and helping him to stand. “I’m really going to need a good shower after touching you.”
He leaned on her shoulder, and she walked him toward a green upholstered chair near a large bay window that overlooked the ocean.
Oswald remained in the doorframe. He couldn’t walk, and it must be killing him to remain standing on his shattered leg. “An he doesn’t get the true pearly-cap simples afore sunrise, he’ll meet the dark angel.”
Celia crossed to a white table against the wall. A carafe of water stood on its surface. “What? I don’t speak… the way you do.”
Thomas sunk into the chair’s embrace. He could become fast friends with this chair, if only everyone would leave him alone. “Oswald. Now would be a good time to put William’s language lessons to use.” Celia handed him a glass, and the fresh water soothed his burning throat.
Oswald wiped the back of his hand over the dried blood on his mouth. “He still needs the real cure that you rich people use. By tomorrow. Or he’ll die.”
Someone had filled Thomas’s head with cotton wool. “Isn’t there a cure in our world? Maybe I can get antibiotics in Boston. I think they work some of the time.”
“You need a miracle cure at this point.” Oswald shook his head. “And what of those children we saw? And what of the rest of the city, dying without the cure that the Throcknells keep to themselves?” He glanced at Celia. “Not that I expect you to care about Tatters.”
“Don’t act like you know everything about me.” She straightened, folding her arms. “But we don’t have time to run all over Maremount. This is life or death. Do you get that?”
“Oh, I get it.” Oswald shot her a bitter smile. “It’s your life and your death that concern you.”
Her nostrils flared, and Thomas could see her fighting the impulse to add to his injuries. It was probably only the fact that he was a friend of Tobias’s and that his sister had been killed that kept Celia from tossing him back down the stairwell. “Can you come in the room and shut the door?”
Oswald just glowered at her through his one open eye, apparently unwilling to admit any weakness.
Thomas finished the last drops of water. “His leg is shattered. He can’t walk.”
“Fine. Guess I’m playing nurse today. Then we need to go.”
“Wait.” Oswald raised a hand, a brief look of panic flashing across his face.
She frowned. “What? I’m not going to hurt you.”
“I need soap and water. Your father didn’t set aside any bathwater for me in the torture chamber.”
Thomas almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the request. Maybe Oswald hated the Throcknells, but he didn’t want to meet a princess on his knees, nor did he want to meet one reeking like he’d been tortured for a week.
Celia tutted, turning to walk toward a large wooden wardrobe. “Honestly. This is no time for vanity.” She opened the wardrobe and pulled out a silky white robe and a cotton cloth. “Have you seen how Thomas looks? He looks like a Victorian clown who went through a woodchipper. He’s not complaining.”
Thomas glanced down at his shredded green, pearly ensemble. “Cheers.” He couldn’t care less. He’d escaped torture, an execution, death in a tunnel, and insanity. At least, I have so far.
Celia grabbed the carafe of water and a bar of soap and hurried across the room to lay them at Oswald’s feet. She stuffed the robe into his good hand, and edged the door closed to give him some privacy.