Brunch with my parents on Christmas morning was lovely.

Or at least it would have been if I hadn’t felt the beginning of a migraine creeping inside my skull. I’d taken medicine right after waking up, but I could already tell this was going to be a bad one.

Still, I enjoyed the morning as much as I could, preparing French toast and waffles while my dad cooked sausages and bacon and my mother set the table. She put out four placemats, but when I was sent, again, to invite Mr. Ward, I couldn’t find him. To be honest, that was fine with me. I didn’t have it in me to maneuver through another mined conversation. Not only that, but if he wasn’t there, it meant that I wouldn’t be tempted to give him his present. I’d decided that I wouldn’t give it to him. At all. Things were complicated enough between us, no need to muddle it more with gifts.

Speaking of gifts, my parents liked theirs very much, if their happy exclamations were any indication. I tried not to wince when their rising voices pulsed through my head like sirens, but they noticed my growing discomfort; they’d watched me suffer through migraines for years, and they could hardly have missed the signs now.

And oh, yes, they did get me a gift, even though their presence, as problematic as it was, remained a gift in itself. They gave me a lovely ring that had belonged to my grandmother and that they’d had resized for me. I’d seen it before, and it was beautiful, but never had the two square rubies set side by side reminded me of anything until that day. Now, they certainly did, and I knew they always would. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.

As soon as all the presents were opened, my mother walked me back to my room. We both knew I wouldn’t have any more food. I was a bit too old to be helped into bed, but it was still nice, as was the cool washcloth she put on my forehead.

“I think your dad and I will go out for a walk,” she said as she closed the drapes for me, plunging the room into soothing darkness. “It looks nice now that it stopped snowing.”

“Dress warm,” I mumbled. “Wish I could come with.”

If she answered, I didn’t hear it.

I must have drifted into sleep. It was the sound of my name that woke me again.

“What?” I said, my head pounding as I sat up. The washcloth, uncomfortably warm by now, fell into my lap. I blinked repeatedly to try to clear my vision, but all I could see was a dark shape framed in the open door.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Ward said. “I didn’t realize you were feeling ill.”

“What d’you want?” I muttered, pressing my hands to my temples.

“Nothing. It can wait. Do you need anything?”

If nothing else, I appreciated the quiet tone of voice he was using. I started to say no but changed my mind.

“In the bathroom.” I gestured vaguely to my side. “By the sink. My migraine medicine. Please?”

He didn’t make a sound as he crossed the room, nor did he turn the light on in the bathroom, for which I was thankful. Light always made the pain worse. When he came back, he had two pills in the palm of one hand and a glass of water in the other. I took them gratefully and laid back down. Warm or not, I started to put the washcloth back on my forehead, but a gentle hand took it from me. I heard water run. Moments later, the washcloth was back, cooler and comforting.

“Do you need anything else?” Mr. Ward murmured.

I was tempted to say, “For you to always be this nice,” but that was too much of an effort. I couldn’t even manage a word of thanks. All I could do was take his hand before he walked away and give it a light squeeze before drifting off.

When I woke up again, I was a little disoriented. My head still felt heavy, almost rumbling with the echoes of a fading storm, but hopefully the worst of it had passed. I got out of bed, threw some cold water on my face, and set out to look for my parents. Night wasn’t far, I realized; surely they’d come back from their walk a while ago. Try as I might, however, I couldn’t find them. I did find Mr. Ward in the conference room and felt a little embarrassed about him being in my room earlier. Should I thank him? Ask him again what he’d wanted?

“Your parents went out,” he said looking up from the computer to consider me with a frown. “I got them tickets for The Lion King.”

I drew a chair and sat down, resting my head on my crossed arms.

“They’re going to be suspicious that you always happen to have two last-minute tickets,” I said, mumbling a little.

“I had three. I let your mother inform me that you weren’t up for it.”

Smart. That way, he wouldn’t look like he knew I couldn’t go out. And it wasn’t like he’d care about wasting money on a ticket that wouldn’t get used. But I cared. Not so much about the money, but about the fact that I was missing something else. I’d seen the show with friends, but it’d have been nice to see it with my parents—like I’d seen the movie with them when I was a kid.

For a few seconds, the only sounds were the clickety-click of the computer keyboard and the light humming of its fan. I closed my eyes. My head was beginning to hurt again.

The clicking stopped.

“Are you feeling better?” Mr. Ward asked.

I forced myself to open my eyes and raise my head.

“For the most part. Any more emails?”

The narrow-eyed look he gave me was downright suspicious.

“Some RSVPs and a few more offers for the silent auction.”

“Anything good?”

“You’ll see when you’re all better. You should go back to bed.”

I didn’t want to go back to bed, but neither did I want to argue with him. We’d argued enough since I first walked into the mansion. Civilized conversations were nicer, especially when my brain wasn’t up to anything too complicated.

“Any plans for my parents tomorrow?” I asked.

He sat back in his chair, letting it rock back and forth.

“I don’t know. Your dad mentioned the art books. Do you think they’d enjoy visiting museums, or did they get enough with the tour you gave them of the mansion?”

So, he knew about that. Was there anything happening under his roof he didn’t know about?

“They’d enjoy it,” I said, thinking on how it’d been one of my plans for them. “We’d talked about going to Ellis Island together. Look up our family and all that fun stuff.”

“Maybe you could keep that for next time. When you can go with them.”

“Next time,” I repeated, feeling a little bitter—and a little lightheaded. “Are we certain there’s going to be a next time? What if she never lets me go? What if I’m stuck here until I die of old age?”

“Angelina…”

I ignored his quiet interruption; it sounded like little more than a buzz in my ears.

“You’d tire of me long before that,” I pressed on. “Would you kill me, then? You said you wouldn’t but really, how long until you get fed up with the whole situation?”

When he stood, part of me wondered if he’d do it now. Kill me. End me. End the damn pounding intensifying in my skull.

“Stop talking nonsense,” he groused. “You won’t die in here, not at my hand and not from old age. Come on, you need rest.”

He offered me his hand. As it turned out, I needed it to get back to my feet, and I needed his arm to return to my room. The migraine was back in full force, and my vision was as blurry as if I’d been crying my heart out—which I could have easily done, for no reason at all.

He got me back in bed and drew the covers over me, like my mom had done—like he had done when Miss Delilah had compelled me to sleep in his bed.

“More medicine?” he murmured.

Nodding was a mistake. A stupid, painful mistake. He came back with pills, water, and a wonderfully cold washcloth.

“How about food?” he asked, still quietly. “Have you had anything to eat at all today?”

Had I? I couldn’t remember. And anyway, I didn’t think I’d be able to eat anything, or so I tried to tell him. I must not have made myself clear, because some indeterminate amount of time later, he came back with something that smelled delicious and awakened rumblings in my stomach.

“Soup?” I asked, my mouth already watering, as I sat up against the pillows.

It was indeed more of Stephen’s delicious soup. Which Mr. Ward fed to me, one spoonful after the other, in a completely dark room so the light wouldn’t aggravate the pain. It was rather surreal.

He didn’t spill a drop. By the time the spoon was scraping against the bottom of the bowl, I was beginning to fall asleep, and I don’t even remember lying down again. I’m also not sure if I imagined cool lips brushing across my forehead, or if it was just the washcloth again.

 

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