Free A Most Delicate Pursuit by Pamela Labud Page B

Thankfully Michael still had his flint and pipe in his pocket, or they wouldn’t have had that. But she knew that they’d little water and nothing to eat. It was time to gear up her resources and figure out what she needed to do to keep them both alive.
    Slipping outside, she surveyed the area around the cottage. Michael had found a stream not far from the cabin, so, following a worn path, she made her way to it. Filling two pots and a bucket, she carried the precious liquid back to the cottage. Once inside, she saw a chest in the corner of the storeroom and she went to investigate. Though the hinges were rusty and there was a layer of dust an inch thick upon it, she managed to pry the top open.
    What she found inside filled her with joy. Likely, the cottage had been used recently by hunters. In the chest there was a tin of tea, a fillet knife, and several utensils. This would allow her enough to catch and cook them a decent meal. If they were to have any food at all, it was up to her to provide it.
    Though she’d never been hunting a day in her life, Bea had a pretty good idea of what needed to be done. More than stealing a few eggs, indeed. When she’d gone to the creek she’d seen a fish swimming in the shallow water. Also, some fat plovers might make a meal, and nothing was better than broth to bring a man back from near death.
    Pushing back the thought of Michael’s condition, she set to work.
    —
    Michael drifted in a dream, occupying that place between wakefulness and sleep. He knew the world continued around him, having heard Beatrice’s movements around the cottage: her coming and going, stoking the fireplace, arranging his blankets, and dampening cloths to wipe his brow and ease his fever. She’d hummed part of the time and he realized that she’d the voice of an angel as well. In fact, it was as if her dulcet tones were what anchored him to life and he clung to every sound she made.
    “Michael. You need to wake up for a while.”
    “Hmmm?” He found it hard to arouse fully. It felt as if his mind were weighted down by a ten-stone weight.
    “I’ve made some broth and if you don’t get something inside of you, your condition will only worsen.”
    “Thirsty,” he managed.
    Seconds later, he felt a cup pressed to his lips and Beatrice’s small, cool hand at the back of his neck, tilting his head forward as she carefully dripped cool water into his mouth. He took a sip and then another. The water was cold and tasted like pure ambrosia.
    “Thank you.”
    “You’re welcome,” she said above him.
    He must have fainted after that because time flowed around him and the very next thing he knew, it was night again and the small cottage was filled with the scent of frying fish and steeping tea.
    “Beatrice?” he called out, struggling to sit up. Before he knew what was happening, he felt her suddenly beside him.
    “Easy or you’ll tear open your wound.”
    Opening his eye, he saw her there, standing between him and the hearth, a midnight angel set aglow by the modest fire she’d set.
    “I must have been dreaming.”
    She knelt beside him and, reaching into the pot beside her, dampened a cloth. “Must have been a terrifying dream,” she said, wiping his brow for what felt like the hundredth time since their arrival.
    Michael let out a breath. “I acted like a frightened child. My apologies.”
    She only smiled in response. “No need to apologize. We all have bad dreams every now and then.”
    “I’ve had my share.” He watched her a moment more. “So, will I live?”
    “I think you’re finally starting to recover,” she told him. “Your fever is almost gone.”
    It was true. While he wasn’t yet his old self, he did feel somewhat stronger, though, to be honest, there was something not right about him besides the scarred wound of his shoulder—something off or unusual. He couldn’t quite put his mind to it, just the same.
    Once she’d finished his brow, she went to work on his wound.