I try to smile; it makes my head throb. “Do you really want me to be your wife?” I ask.

“Of course,” he says, and kisses my palm.

“No toasts at the wedding, though,” I murmur, drifting off again.

“Thank you for all that she is about to receive. Come, you must eat something.”

I am sitting up, pillows stuffed behind my back. It appears that Weed has been feeding me soup, for now he is trying to nudge my lips open with the spoon. I do not even remember him coming in.

I breathe in the fragrant, herb-scented steam. I can feel the hunger and thirst that rack my body, but it is as if the sensations belong to someone else; I have no wish to swallow anything. I turn my head away and slump back into the pillows.

“You can do better than that,” Weed insists. “You must. Remember how you persuaded me to eat?”

“I have no taste for it yet. I will eat when I am feeling better.” I note the frown on his face. “Why do you seem so worried? Surely I am not the first person in the world to be made ill by drink. It will pass—mmph.”

He sneaks one spoonful of broth into my mouth as I finish speaking. “Many times I saw how the friar made himself sick with too much ale. He would sleep like a dead man, and the next day wake in the foulest of moods. His head would hurt for a while; he would rage and complain. By nightfall he would recover and be ready to start the process all over again.”

“Would you prefer me to be in a foul mood, then?”

“You can be, if you like.” He places his cool hand on my forehead and brushes back my hair. The concern in his eyes cannot be hidden.

“Weed.” I struggle to sit up again. “How long have I been in bed?”

His face pales, but his voice remains nonchalant. “Not long. Two or three days.”

Three days? How can that be? I try to rise again, and the room spins so fast I fall back to the bed in an instant.

“This is not from the drink, then?” He shakes his head.

“Am I ill?”

“I think so.”

“Ill from what?”

He pauses. “I do not know.”

A tight knot of fear forms in my chest. “Where is Father?”

“He went to London, early yesterday morning. He did not know how ill you were when he left. You were still sleeping, then, though restless and hard to wake.” Gently he lays a hand on my forehead. “He too thought you were sickened by the drink.”

“It was worth it to mark our engagement.” I close my eyes, but they fly open again as a sudden thought pierces my feverish brain. I reach for Weed’s hand. “Weed, do you think the plants might offer a cure for my sickness?”