The de Moliers watched on, shaking their heads, and taunting, “She saved us and not you.”

“No. No, stop, please!” Unable to stand the pain, she sought the further darkness below, and she felt herself sink into its blessed coolness.

***

She tossed around, arms flailing, knocking against him as he lay beside her. He rose and placed a new piece of petticoat on her forehead. She did not feel any cooler to him. Her fever raged as strongly as ever.

“No!” she shouted and crouched into a ball.

“It’s all right, Scarlet. I’m here. You’re safe.” He added quietly, “For now.”

She rolled, turning into him, and buried her face in his chest. He gently stroked her back and ran a hand down her hair, murmuring soothing sounds.

She snuggled closer, and his heart warmed, but it could not dull the worry that grew in his chest. A tight knot formed there, and he could not relax the muscles in his neck and back. They must make their escape, and she showed no signs of improvement.

“Robespierre. His yoke. His collar.” Suddenly her eyes flew open and she grabbed his shirt with both fists, trying to shake him. Crazed eyes searched his own. “Cut his jacket at the neckline, and you’ll live.” She fell back onto his arm, eyes closed.

Éléonore’s shrill voice sounded in the hall. “Wait outside.”

Their door opened, allowing minimal light from the hallway to enter as well as a welcome feeling of fresher air.

“Isn’t that lovely? The marriage bed.”

“She’s ill, Éléonore. She needs a doctor.”

“I care not for her health or your happiness. You are still alive for one reason.” She held out a piece of paper and brought out ink and a quill. “You will write a letter to the Pimpernel.”

He carefully pulled away from Scarlet in the straw and stood up. “How will you get it into his hands? Have you discovered his identity?” A dread-filled hope entered his mind at the thought. Could he get a message to the man through Éléonore? But if she knew his identity, how long would he live?

“We have ways of getting information into his hands.”

Relief filled him. Reaching for the quill, he said, “I don’t know what you are trying to accomplish. He is as elusive as any human. You will never capture him.”

“Just write. Tell him something that will convince him of your danger. Tell him she dies if he does not come.”

A sick ball of jealousy tried to disturb him. He pushed it away as well as he could, but a tendril of worry remained, and his brow wrinkled as he wrote.

Éléonore’s laughter jostled Scarlet in her sleep and grated on Matteo’s last nerve.