“I'm loathe to speculate whether this sublime state is due to my masculine prowess and stamina or merely to a pot of custard.”

“I won't answer that. I would hate to hurt your feelings.”

He rolled his eyes. “You're very kind.”

“Please say Monsieur Belmont makes this on a regular basis.”

“All the time. It's my favorite.”

Ellie paused, spoon frozen in her mouth. “Oh,” she said, looking rather guilty. “I suppose I ought to share.”

“Pay it no mind. I can eat this strawberry tart.” He took a bite. “I say, Monsieur Belmont must be angling for a raise in pay.”

“Why do you think?”

“Aren't strawberry tarts your favorite? It's uncharacteristically thoughtful of him to prepare both our favorites.”

Ellie's face sank into a serious expression.

“Why suddenly so somber?” Charles asked, licking a bit of strawberry off of his lips.

“I am facing a very serious moral dilemma.”

Charles glanced around the room. “I don't see one.”

“You had better eat the rest of this custard,” Ellie said, handing him the pot, which was about two-thirds empty. “I shall feel guilty for weeks if I don't share.”

He grinned. “I knew that marrying the daughter of a vicar would have its benefits.”

“I know,” she sighed. “I have never been able to ignore anyone in need.”

Charles spooned a bite of the custard into his mouth with considerable enthusiasm. “I don't know if this counts as ‘need,’ but I'm willing to pretend it does for your sake.”

“The sacrifices one makes for one's wife,” she muttered.

“Here, have the rest of the strawberry tart.”

“No, I couldn't,” she said, holding up a hand. “It seems somehow sacrilegious after the custard.”

He shrugged. “Have it your own way.”

“Besides, I feel suddenly rather strange.”

Charles put the custard down and assessed her. She was blinking quite rapidly, and her skin held a strange pasty quality. “You do look rather odd.”

“Oh, dear Lord,” Ellie moaned, clutching at her stomach as she curled into a fetal position.

He quickly removed the rest of the dinner plates from the bed. “Ellie? Darling?”

She didn't answer, just whimpered as she tried to pull herself into a tight little ball. Sweat was breaking out on her brow, and her breath was coming in shallow pants.

Charles felt prickly with panic. Ellie, who had been laughing and teasing just moments earlier, now looked as if she were… as if… Dear God, she looked like she were dying.

His heart slammed into his throat, and he raced across the room and yanked hard on the bellpull. Then he ran to the door, threw it open, and bellowed, “Cordelia!” His aunt was more than a trifle batty, but she did know a thing or two about sickness and healing, and Charles didn't know what else to do.

“Ellie,” he said urgently, running back to her side. “What is wrong? Please talk to me.”

“It's like burning swords,” she gasped, her eyes shut tight against the pain. “Burning swords in my belly. Oh, God, Oh God. Make it go away. Please.”