I don't doubt it. But will they be in time? I fear not." He lowered his head and a tear streaked his cheek. "And what of me? How much longer must I suffer?"
"Oh, Richey, Richey!" The door flung open and Mwynwen ran in and dropped to her knees beside the young man's chair. "My dearling, dearling. Why didn't you tell me you were in pain? I could—"
"Lull me asleep, Mother?" The tears were now flowing more freely down Richey's cheeks. "How many days, weeks, months have I lain in a near stupor, too tired to sit, too tired to read, too tired play a game or watch my creatures at play? I could not be ungrateful to you. I love you too much. I could not tell you and hurt you, but I am glad you were listening in case Denoriel called and overheard." He sighed. "I am glad you know. I am tired . . . tired. And . . . and I do not want to rot, to dissolve, while I am still living and aware. Look!"
He pinched his flesh and a piece came off, leaving a sore that oozed for only a moment but did not heal. Mwynwen watched, horror marking her face.
"Richey," she breathed. "My dearling. Richey." Tears began to pour down her face. "Oh my dear—what have I done to you?"
* * *
The fifteenth of July was a particularly pleasant day, clear and bright and not too warm. Shandy Dunstan lifted his master, gritting his teeth to repress his alarm. "Those stupid Sidhe have left it too long," he muttered under his breath, probably thinking FitzRoy couldn't hear him.
But there was nothing wrong with Harry's hearing, though the rest of him was failing. They looked down at a body weighing nearly nothing, and the movement was enough to set off a new spasm of coughing. Dunstan looked around in alarm. He had sent Mistress Bethany to procure fresh kerchiefs, but if she heard FitzRoy coughing she might come back too soon and make Dunstan leave him alone.
Which, at the moment, was what Harry would rather have had.
A nearly transparent hand wearily raised an already stained kerchief to FitzRoy's mouth. He wiped his lips and whispered, "Let
"Oh, Richey, Richey!" The door flung open and Mwynwen ran in and dropped to her knees beside the young man's chair. "My dearling, dearling. Why didn't you tell me you were in pain? I could—"
"Lull me asleep, Mother?" The tears were now flowing more freely down Richey's cheeks. "How many days, weeks, months have I lain in a near stupor, too tired to sit, too tired to read, too tired play a game or watch my creatures at play? I could not be ungrateful to you. I love you too much. I could not tell you and hurt you, but I am glad you were listening in case Denoriel called and overheard." He sighed. "I am glad you know. I am tired . . . tired. And . . . and I do not want to rot, to dissolve, while I am still living and aware. Look!"
He pinched his flesh and a piece came off, leaving a sore that oozed for only a moment but did not heal. Mwynwen watched, horror marking her face.
"Richey," she breathed. "My dearling. Richey." Tears began to pour down her face. "Oh my dear—what have I done to you?"
* * *
The fifteenth of July was a particularly pleasant day, clear and bright and not too warm. Shandy Dunstan lifted his master, gritting his teeth to repress his alarm. "Those stupid Sidhe have left it too long," he muttered under his breath, probably thinking FitzRoy couldn't hear him.
But there was nothing wrong with Harry's hearing, though the rest of him was failing. They looked down at a body weighing nearly nothing, and the movement was enough to set off a new spasm of coughing. Dunstan looked around in alarm. He had sent Mistress Bethany to procure fresh kerchiefs, but if she heard FitzRoy coughing she might come back too soon and make Dunstan leave him alone.
Which, at the moment, was what Harry would rather have had.
A nearly transparent hand wearily raised an already stained kerchief to FitzRoy's mouth. He wiped his lips and whispered, "Let