Chapter 63
When the evening deepened into its inky shroud, the door groaned open at last, revealing a woman of middle years clad in the distinct uniform of a Vaneeri maid. In her hands, she bore a tray, upon which sat a steaming bowl of something. Whatever its intended purpose, the foul stench that emanated from it reached me even from across the room, acrid and offensive, clawing its way into my senses with a merciless grip.
A sudden, violent wave of nausea seized me. My stomach twisted, writhing as though possessed by some unseen force. As my abdomen tensed, pain speared through the knife wound. I gasped aloud. The maid, sensing my distress, hastily abandoned the tray upon the table and hurried to my side.
Tears pricked at my eyes before spilling over, blurring my vision as I trembled. A sob tore through me, my breath ragged as sweat beaded at my temple.
"Easy, Lady Florence," the maid murmured. She untied the cursed bonds that had held me captive swiftly.
The moment my wrists were freed, I lurched my upper body over the side of the bed as my body succumbed to its torment. My stomach heaved, and with a wail of misery, I expelled its contents in a violent cascade. I gagged. I retched. My broken and raw cries filled the air. Again and again, my body convulsed, wringing from me every last remnant of my strength.
I could feel her steady hand rubbing circles on my back in a silent attempt at comfort, but it was of little use.
Even when I dared to believe the torment had subsided, my traitorous stomach wrenched anew, seizing me in another fit of violent, merciless heaves. There was nothing left to expel, yet my body refused to yield, convulsing with such force that I half expected my very soul to wrench itself free from this wretched shell. My arms trembled beneath me, barely able to bear the weight of my own suffering. I could do nothing but sag against the maid's embrace.
And then, darkness claimed me once more.
When consciousness returned to me, it was greeted by the sharp glare of daylight, a most unwelcome intrusion upon my agony. My body quaked beneath the torment it had long since grown accustomed to. A sheen of perspiration coated my skin.
And then, that loathsome nausea arose once more. I lurched forward. A wooden bucket appeared before me in time to catch the wretched liquid that surged from my throat. It was an eternity before the suffering ceased, before I collapsed back against the mattress. A gentle hand with a soft cloth dabbed at my lips, wiping away the last remnants of my disgrace.
Sleep beckoned, a siren's call too sweet to resist. Yet, just as the darkness threatened to reclaim me, a voice reached through the haze.
"Lady Florence, you must eat something first."
Eat. How laughable. My stomach was an empty void, yet the mere thought of sustenance sent fresh waves of nausea rippling through me. Then, as if struck by a dreadful realization, my thoughts sharpened. A memory surfaced. Annette had spoken of granting my dying wish, at a later time.
A cold chuckle scraped against my raw throat. "Her Grace and her mother… tell me, have they poisoned me?" My voice, much to my displeasure, was but a weak, rasping thing. "How delightful. This method of torment is rather creative."
"No one has poisoned you, Lady Florence."
Ah, how endearing. Did they take me for a fool?
A spoon was presented before me, its contents undoubtedly vile. The maid's voice implored, "I have brought medicine and soup. Please, partake before resting."
Medicine. Oh, how droll. Another fine addition to their repertoire of cruelty, no doubt. Yet, why resist? If death was to come, let it be swift.
I exhaled, weary beyond words. "Very well."
She propped me against a fortress of pillows, allowing my weakened frame some semblance of support. Then, the first wretched dose was pressed against my lips. I obliged, parting them only to be assaulted by a taste so acrid it sent a violent shudder through me. My body rebelled, rejecting the foul concoction with such force that it splattered upon the blankets and dripped from my chin.
How utterly revolting.
"It is quite alright, Lady Florence. We shall try again." Her voice remained steady.
Once more, the devil's brew touched my tongue, and this time, with determination, I swallowed before my reflex could betray me. Again, and again, I endured until the last of the wretched liquid was gone.
Then came the soup. Likely another cruel jest. Yet, what did it matter? I drank without protest, indifferent to whatever fate awaited me.
When the ordeal was done, she undressed me, cleansed my fevered skin, and wrapped me in fresh linens. My wounds protested each touch, sending fresh lances of agony through my frame. I panted, flinched, bit back sobs that threatened to escape against my will.
Without warning, the sickness reared its head once more. I lurched forward, my sudden movement igniting a searing pain in my abdomen that threatened to consume me whole.
The bucket was there, just in time, as my body expelled all that had just been forced into it. Each heave tore through me, each tremor wrung me dry until there was nothing left but a shell of myself.
Darkness loomed once more, and I did not resist. I sank into it, welcomed it with open arms, for in its embrace, there was no pain. No sickness. No cruel jest of life. Only silence.