I quickened my pace down the hallway, the soup on my tray sloshing dangerously close to the rim. That crash from Alaric's room didn't bode well. My husband was terrible enough when healthy and interrupted—ill and disturbed by the King would make him absolutely unbearable.
"Clara," I called over my shoulder, "please have some tea sent up immediately, and ask Mrs. Pembroke to prepare an extra serving of lunch. It seems we have unexpected royal guests."
Clara nodded and hurried off while I approached Alaric's door, now hanging partially open from Theron's unceremonious entrance. I could hear raised voices inside—not a good sign for a man with a fever.
"—don't care if you're the bloody king of the moon, Theron. Get out of my bedchamber!" Alaric's voice was hoarse but still carried its usual commanding tone.
"You look terrible," came Theron's blunt assessment.
