Summer sensed movement about her, and shortly coolth seeped into the heat of her face. She forced her eyes open, confused as to why Bertha did not speak, and her eyes fell on Henry’s broad-shouldered silhouette. “Henry?” she whispered, thinking somehow she must be dreaming. She loved him, and he thought her only greedily ambitious. If ‘twas not a dream, what would he be doing here?
He turned as he heard the voice and looked at her, suddenly exposed and caught in her room. He could not fight the thoughts of what she had said to him and he looked to the ground.
“Forgive me, I had not been told you were unwell these days.” he said to her and he motioned to the book on the counter, “I brought you your book.”
She smiled slowly, certain it was a dream then. “Of course you are forgiven. Will you not read to me?” Only in a dream would the King care enough to bring a book to her, to change the cloth on her forehead. Summer reached out a hand toward him.
He looked at her and the smile was enough for him to convince himself that she was not herself, perhaps it was the fever that made her so. He stepped forward, as she took his arm, and he nodded as he picked up the book from the table.
“As you wish.”
Summer shifted around until there was space for him to sit on the edge of the narrow bed. One hand crept out to loop over his arm. ”Thank you,” she whispered. She watched Henry pick up the book, watched his mouth shape the words, drowned in his voice until her eyes slipped closed again. “Love you,” she sighed, almost inaudible in the edges of sleep.