All the heartache she’d been bearing melted away into the stirring of joy. “May I see him?”
After balancing the two boards on the table edge, Jorgan pulled out a pocketful of bent nails and set them in a pail. “Yes. And if you don’t mind, he’s ready for a meal. He’s had a few crackers, but perhaps somethin’ heartier now. Tess came by earlier and started a stew. She’s gone now, and if you’re able to dish some up—”
Aven was on her feet before he could even finish.
“Don’t wear yourself out again.” Jorgan watched her as he pushed the pail aside. “I doubt Haakon minded carryin’ you to the house, but I don’t think he wants to do it again, for your sake.” He gave a brotherly smile then, taking up the boards, strode out.
She owed Haakon a thanks, and even now could still feel the surety of his hold and the steady cadence of his steps as he’d borne her across the yard. As vivid and real was the way Thor had been trying to say her name.
As she checked on the stew, Aven felt a curious longing to hear it again. Carrots and potatoes simmered alongside herbs and hearty meat—just the fare to fortify Thor. She filled a bowl, then turned in search of some bread. A fresh loaf rested on the windowsill, and Aven wanted to weep with gladness to whoever was responsible. Tess, most likely. Jorgan confirmed as much upon his return to the kitchen.
“Tess did that while Ida scrubbed the attic. I don’t know how she did it, but a few kettles of hot water and soap and the woman set it to rights again.”
’Twas no wonder Ida had needed such a rest.
Aven cut a thick slice of bread for Thor, then steeped ginger and hot water together. After dusting in a spoonful of sugar, she placed the cup on a tray. She steadied the bowl into place, then fetched both napkin and spoon.
Her heart tripped over itself for reasons she wasn’t willing to acknowledge, and she lifted the tray and carried it up the stairs.
Near the open attic door, a breeze sifted through the room, fresh and cool. The parted curtains rippled. Skirt lifted in one hand and the tray clutched against her ribs, Aven peeked inside. The room was awash with Ida’s handiwork. Every surface scrubbed and righted. But it was the nearest bed that drew Aven’s attention. The man lying there.
A wet ring darkened the center of the floor from the tub Jorgan had brought up so Thor could bathe. From his lack of movement Aven surmised that Thor had needed help. He lay on his side now, gaze seeming to rest on nothing in particular. His coloring wasn’t as dull as it had been, yet the shadows beneath his eyes were bleaker. His hair was nearly dry. Aven moved in front of him, knelt, and set the tray near.
He looked at her and surprise registered in his eyes. She didn’t know why, but a sting of tears gathered and she had to fight them back. Unsure of what to say, she reached out and gently touched his hand. It was nothing, really . . . she simply ran her fingertip along the skin of his knuckles. It was the only hello she knew to form.
He blinked quickly, then his hand shifted on the mattress and the tip of his thick finger grazed her thumb.
She smiled again, and losing the fight with herself, a tear fell. Aven wiped it away. “How are you feeling?” She hoped he could understand her.
He wet his lips but didn’t stir. A small cut above his brow glistened with a trace of ointment. His head had to be hurting, and she didn’t want him to move unless he wished. His gaze was on her face. Though he was silent, the slight shifts in his expression gave hint to his thoughts. His brow pinched when she mentioned the meal. His mouth parted at the declaration of it being bread and hot stew. When she told him she could make something else if that wasn’t appetizing, his gaze roved her face.
“I don’t want you to have to sit up just now, so if it seems too much, I can set it here for when you are ready. Or bring more later—”
He gripped the edge of the mattress, trying to push himself up. She moved to assist. So sturdy was he and she weak still, her efforts seemed more hindrance than help. Aven moved aside as he rose to a sit.
His cotton undershirt was snug to his chest and forearms, the sleeves shoved up to his elbows. He wore sable-brown pants—absent of both suspenders and knife sheath. Thor leaned against the wall, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes.
He sat that way for a long while. Not wanting to rush him, she set about tucking his clean laundry away. She’d washed and folded their clothing before, but never had she put it away, so it was by trial and error that she finished the task a few minutes later. Thinking Thor had fallen asleep where he sat, she looked over to see that he was watching her.
Hands slowing, she tucked the last of his shirts into the dresser and closed the drawer. Sweeping her skirt aside, Aven knelt beside his bed again. “Can I get you anything?”
With his eyes on her mouth, his brow furrowed. Something about him seemed unsteady. Then he looked over at the tray, and his hand shifted ever so slightly toward it.
“You are hungry?”
Slowly, he nodded.
Aven perched on the edge of the bed and peeked at him, hoping he wouldn’t mind. She offered him the bowl and he took it in his trembling grasp. Thor eyed the spoon warily. He lifted the handle and broth sloshed about as he tried to raise it. ’Twould never do for him in this state. To hold the spoon herself might fluster him, so Aven took the bread, tore off a chunk, and tucked it into his grasp.
A little sigh slipped from his lips—the sound of relief.
Did he know he’d made it? It was so sweet she found herself swallowing another sting. With slow movements he dunked the crusty piece into the stew, then lifted it to his mouth.
His eyes slid closed as he chewed. Aven watched him, wondering how hungry he had become. Thor struggled to tear off another piece of bread. She slid her hands against his own, broke off a second pinch, and tucked it into his palm. He dipped and ate. They repeated the pattern only a few more times, gratitude heavy in his brown eyes. When he eased the bowl away, she returned it to the tray.
Remembering the ginger water, Aven offered it to him. May that it would settle his stomach further. He sipped and made a face.
She accepted the cup back. “Never have I met a man so choosy about what he drinks.”
The lines around his eyes deepened in the faintest of smiles.
Smiling herself, she set the cup aside. “I do promise to make you something else.”
He dipped his head in a small thank-you, then seemed to regret it, for he lowered himself back to the mattress. With him lying on his side, Aven pulled his blanket up and nestled it about his shoulders. Her fingers brushed against his arm and she felt a tremor in him. The poor man was chilled.
Aven fetched a denser quilt and lowered that over him as well. His eyes slid closed, breath shallowing. His hair had fallen against the side of his cheek, and as gently as she could, Aven tucked it behind his ear. His eyes nearly fluttered open so she pulled away.
“Rest ye, now,” she whispered.
’Twas what the Sisters of Mercy used to say whenever one of them dimmed the lanterns in the orphan dormitory. Aven cast Thor one last glance, then as quietly as she had come, she took up the tray and tiptoed back out.
SEVENTEEN
Never had sleep been so much his friend. It was the balm to his madness. The reprieve that got him to the beginning of his seventh day sober. This hour where the terrors were nearly a memory. It was a small death he’d just died, and he ached with the aftermath. There was a void without liquor—he felt it deeply—but it was a void he had sought, and Thor told himself every few minutes that it was good.