“Oh,” she breathed, yet again looking toward the door.

“What were you doing with his legs?” I asked. “For his other nurses have not done that to him.”

She turned to me. “It is not common practice…yet. But my professor at the Go’Da, with injuries like Sir Alfie, with much evidence he is quite correct, including my work with other such patients, contends that exercising muscles a patient cannot use will keep them, if not strong, then supple, movable, toned.” She shook her head. “If this is not done, they become stiff, the knee difficult to bend, and in the end, the muscle wastes away.”

“Then you must carry on.”

“He has feeling there.”

I stared at her, my heart flipping in my chest.

“In his hips. Even his legs. I have touched his hips and he…he…winces. Not from pain. From me touching…”

“I understand,” I murmured when she trailed off and did not carry on.

She then carried on.

“As the swelling has gone down, I’ve even noticed him flex the muscles in his thighs.”

“By the gods,” I breathed.

She shook her head swiftly. “Do not hold hope. Please, Your Grace. It would be foolhardy. His injury was severe. But it was low on his back. I do not think he will ever walk again. But I’ve known men who have had such injuries who regain some mobility in their legs. Control of certain functions. Important ones, my queen, for life and dignity. And he…he…there is some small hope, for he has those.”

“Then you must carry on,” I urged.

“The patient must help,” she told me.

I twitched my shoulders. “Leave that to me. True and me.”

More likely True, Wallace, Luther, Bram and Florian and maybe me.

But we’d see to that.

Absolutely.

“It is not to his benefit if I cause him distress,” she advised.

“The kind of distress you will cause him, Bronagh, might be the only thing that keeps him alive.”

She let go a gust of shocked breath.

“Please,” I whispered. “It might take much from you, and I do not know how it will end, but please. For my husband. For Alfie. Please, do not give up on him.”

It took her a moment to reply.

But I felt my shoulders slump in relief when she said, “I will do that for you, my queen, and my king and…and…” her eyes brightened, “for Sir Alfie.”

I nodded to her and smiled. “Thank you.”

“It is my calling.”

I hoped it would be much more than that.

“Regardless, thank you.”

Her gaze drifted to the door and she mumbled, “I hear he doesn’t shout at his king.”

“He shouts at nobody but fair-haired maids with beguiling freckles.”

She could not hide the hope as her eyes turned to me.

And I could not stop my smile.

The door opened and we both jumped from it like we were doing something we felt guilty about.

True closed the door behind him and trained an evaluating gaze to Bronagh then to me before he said to Bronagh, “I think he needs a rest from…whatever it was you were doing.”