“A fine afternoon to you,” he said. Cecilia decided her eyes must not have looked as crazed as she felt, because he did not back away in fear. “What can I get you?”
She looked over his wares. It was nearing the end of his sales day, so he didn’t have much. A few skinny courgettes, several ears of the sweet corn that grew so well here. And over in the corner, the biggest, fattest, most hideously red strawberry she’d ever seen. She wondered at its presence here, so late in the day. Had all his other customers sensed what she already knew? That the speckled, pocked-up, inverted red pyramid was nothing but a little bomb of misery and despair?
She swallowed. She could do this. “That’s a very large strawberry,” she said, eyeing it with queasy distaste. Her stomach heaved just at the thought of it.
“I know!” Mr. Hopchurch said with great excitement. “Have you ever seen one so grand? My wife was right proud of it.”
“I’ll take it, please,” Cecilia said, practically choking on the words.
“You can’t take just one,” Mr. Hopchurch said. “I sell them by the half dozen.”
That might explain why he had not sold it. She gave him a pathetic nod. “Six, then.”
He reached out and took hold of the big one by its leafy green crown. “Do you have a basket?”
She looked down at her hands. What an idiot she was. She hadn’t thought. “Never mind,” she said. She didn’t need six. Not with one the size of Colossus. “I’ll pay you for six,” she told him, “but I only need the one.”
Mr. Hopchurch looked at her as if she were right crazy, but he was far too sensible to argue. He took her money and dropped the giant berry into her hands. “Fresh from the garden. Be sure to come back and tell me how you like it.”
Cecilia was quite certain he would not like it if she did, but she nodded nonetheless, thanking him before making her way to a quiet spot around the corner.
Dear God, now she had to eat it.
She wondered if this was how Shakespeare’s Juliet felt, right before she took her wicked brew. The body rebelled against ingesting something it knew to be poisonous. And her body knew quite well that this strawberry was just two shades short of hemlock.
Leaning against a building for support, she lifted the red berry and held it near her face. And then, against the protests of her stomach, her nose, and honestly, every last part of her body, she took a bite.
By seven that night, Cecilia wanted to die.
Edward knew this because she said quite clearly: “I want to die.”
“No, you don’t,” he said with more pragmatism than he felt. Logically, he knew that she would be fine, that this was probably a case of bad fish at supper—although he’d eaten what she’d eaten, and he was fine.
But it was hell to watch her suffer. She’d already retched so many times all she had left was some pinkish-yellowish bile. Even worse, her skin was beginning to rise with thick red welts.
“I think we should get a doctor,” he said.
“No,” she moaned. “Don’t go.”
He shook his head. “You’re too ill.”
She grabbed his hand with enough strength to startle him. “I don’t need a doctor.”
“Yes,” he said, “you do.”
“No.” She shook her head, then moaned.
“What?”
She closed her eyes and lay very still. “It made me dizzy,” she whispered. “Can’t shake my head.”
Now she had vertigo? “Cecilia, I really think—”
“It was something I ate,” she cut in weakly. “I’m quite sure.”
He frowned. He’d thought the same, but she was getting worse by the second. “Did you have the fish at supper?”
“Aaaahhh!” She threw her arm over her eyes, even though as far he could tell they were still closed. “Don’t say that word!”
“Fish?”
“Stop!”
“What?”
“Don’t mention food,” she mumbled.
He thought about this. Maybe it was something she ate. He watched for a bit, more wary than worried. She was lying utterly still atop the bedclothes, her arms at her sides in two perfect sticks. She was still wearing the pink frock she’d had on earlier, although he supposed they were going to have to get it cleaned. He didn’t think she’d got any bile on it, but she’d been sweating rather viciously. Come to think of it, he should probably loosen her stays or unfasten her buttons or something to make her more comfortable.
“Cecilia?”
She did not move.
“Cecilia?”
“I’m not dead,” she told him.
“No,” he said, trying not to smile. “I can see that you’re not.”
“I’m just lying very still,” she said.
And she was doing an admirable job of it. He could barely see her lips move.
“If I lie very still,” she continued, her voice coming out slightly singsongy, “it almost feels like I’m not going to . . .”
“Vomit?” he supplied.
“I was going to say die,” she said. “I’m fairly certain I’m still going to vomit.”
He had the chamber pot next to her in a flash.
“Not right now,” she went on, reaching blindly out to push it away. “But soon.”
“When I least expect it?”
“No.” She let out a tired exhale. “More likely when I least expect it.”
He tried not to laugh. He sort of succeeded, but he had a feeling she’d heard him snort. He wasn’t nearly as worried about her as he’d been just a few minutes before. If she maintained her sense of humor, she was probably going to be fine. He wasn’t sure how he knew this, but he’d seen enough bouts of food poisoning to decide that she was probably right; she’d eaten something that had not agreed with her.
The welts were concerning, though. He was rather glad they did not have a looking glass. She would not like what she saw.
Gingerly, he sat on the side of the bed, reaching out so that he could touch her forehead. But when the mattress dipped, Cecilia let out an unholy groan. One of her arms swung blindly through the air, connecting with his thigh.
“Ow!”
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not,” he said with a smile.
“Please don’t rock the bed.”
He pried her fingers from his leg. “I thought you didn’t get seasick.”
“I don’t.”
“If that’s the case, I think you now know how the rest of us feel.”
“I was perfectly happy not knowing.”
“Yes,” he murmured affectionately, “I expect you were.”
She opened one eyelid. “Why does it sound as if you’re enjoying this?”
“Oh, I’m certainly not enjoying this. But I have come to agree with you that you’ve a nasty case of food poisoning. So while I have the utmost sympathy and concern, I am no longer overtly worried for your health.”
She grunted. Aside from the retching, it was possibly the least ladylike noise he’d heard from her lips.
He found it delightful.
“Edward?”
“Yes?”
She swallowed. “Do I have spots on my face?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“They itch.”
“Try not to scratch them,” he said.
“I know.”
He smiled. It was the most gloriously mundane conversation.
“Shall I get you a cool cloth?”