He turned again to face her, his eyes now almost fully open. His breathing was labored, and his skin was still so terribly heated. But when she looked in his eyes, she saw him there, through the fever, under the pain.

He was still Marcus, and she would not let anything happen to him.

Thirty minutes later, Marcus’s eyes were closed again, his sleep aided considerably by a dose of laudanum. Honoria had adjusted his position so that she could hold his hand, and she had kept up a steady stream of conversation. It didn’t seem to matter what she said, but she was not the only one who noticed that the sound of her voice soothed him.

Or at least she hoped it did, because if it didn’t, then she was utterly useless. And that was more than she could bear.

“I think we’re almost finished,” she told him. She cast a wary glance at her mother, who was still working diligently at his leg. “I think we’d have to be. I can’t imagine what there is left to clean.”

But her mother let out a frustrated breath and sat back, pausing to wipe her brow.

“Is there a problem?” Honoria asked.

Her mother shook her head and resumed her work, but after only a moment she pulled away. “I can’t see.”

“What? No, that’s impossible.” Honoria took a breath, trying to keep calm. “Just put your head closer.”

Lady Winstead shook her head. “That’s not the problem. It’s just like when I read. I have to hold the book away from my eyes. I just— I can’t—” She let out a resigned, impatient sigh. “I just can’t see it well enough. Not the small bits.”

“I’ll do it,” Honoria said, her voice far more certain than the rest of her.

Her mother looked at her, but not with surprise. “It’s not easy.”

“I know.”

“He might scream.”

“He already has done,” Honoria said. But her throat felt close, and her heart was pounding.

“It is harder to hear when you are the one with the scissors,” her mother said softly.

Honoria wanted to say something elegant, something heroic about how much harder it would be if he died and she hadn’t done everything she could to save him. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. She had only so much left within her, and words were no longer the best use of her energy.

“I can do it,” was all she said.

She looked at Marcus, still bound tightly to the bed. Sometime in the past hour he’d gone from burning red to deathly pale. Was that a good sign? She’d asked her mother, but she didn’t know, either.

“I can do it,” Honoria said again, even though her mother had already handed her the scissors. Lady Winstead rose from her chair, and Honoria sat down, taking a deep breath.