hands halfway to our mouth—equally absurd—but he recovered first, hiding the sticky bun hastily behind his back. A bit of icing remained on the tip of his nose.
“Louise! What—what are you doing down here?” He shook his head at my bewildered expression, clearing his throat, before rising to his full, inconsiderable height. “This is a restricted area. I must ask you to leave at once.”
“Sorry, I—” With a shake of my own head, I averted my gaze, looking anywhere but his nose. “I wanted to borrow a Bible.”
He stared at me as if I’d sprouted horns—ironic, given my request. “A what?”
“Is that a . . . bun?” I inhaled the cinnamon and vanilla deeply, brushing a strand of sweaty hair from my forehead. Despite the fever, saliva pooled in my mouth. I’d know that smell anywhere. That was my smell. What the hell was he doing with it? It didn’t belong in this dark, dismal place.
“Enough impertinent questions.” He scowled and wiped his fingers on the back of his robes surreptitiously. “If you truly seek to procure a Bible—which I doubt—I shall of course provide you with one, so long as you return to your room directly.” Reluctantly, his eyes assessed my face: the pale skin, the sweaty brow, the shadowed eyes. His expression softened. “You should be in bed, Louise. Your body needs time to—” He shook his head once more, catching himself, as if not quite sure what had gotten into him. I empathized. “Do not move from this spot.”
He pushed past me into the library, returning a moment later. “Here.” He thrust an ancient, dusty tome into my hands. Icing smeared the spine and cover. “Ensure you take care of it properly. This is the word of God.”
I ran my hand over the leather binding, tracing lines through the dust and icing. “Thank you. I’ll return it when I’m finished.”
“No need.” He cleared his throat again, frowning and clasping his hands behind his back. He looked as uncomfortable as I felt. “It is yours. A gift, if you will.”
A gift. The words sent a bolt of displeasure through me, and I was struck by the oddity of this situation. The Archbishop, hiding the icing on his fingers. Me, clutching a Bible to my chest. “Right. Well, I’m going to go—”
“Of course. I, too, must retire—”
We parted ways with equally awkward nods.
Reid opened the bedroom door quietly that night. I shoved the Bible beneath his bed and greeted him with a guilty “Hello!”
“Lou!” He nearly leapt out of his skin. I might’ve even heard him curse. Eyes wide, he tossed his coat on the desk and approached warily. “It’s late. What are you doing awake?”
“Couldn’t sleep.” My teeth chattered, and I burrowed deeper into the blanket in which I’d cocooned myself.
He touched a hand to my forehead. “You’re burning up. Have you visited the infirmary?”
“Brie said the fever would last a few days.”
When he moved to sit beside me on the bed, I clambered to my feet, abandoning my blanket. My muscles protested the sudden movement, and I winced, shivering. He sighed and stood as well. “I’m sorry. Please, sit. You need to rest.”
“No, I need to get this hair off my neck. It’s driving me mad.” Inexplicably furious, I yanked the offending strands away from my sensitive skin. “But my arms, they’re so . . . heavy . . .” A yawn eclipsed the rest of my words, and my arms drooped. I sank back onto the bed. “I can’t seem to hold them up.”
He chuckled. “Is there something I can do to help?”
“You can braid it.”
The chuckle died abruptly. “You want me to—to what?”
“Braid it. Please.” He stared at me. I stared back. “I can teach you. It’s easy.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“Please. I can’t sleep with it touching my skin.”
It was true. Between the scripture, the fever, and the lack of sleep, my mind whirled deliriously. Every brush of hair against my skin was agony—somewhere between cold and pain, tingle and ache.
He swallowed hard and stepped around me. A welcome shiver swept down my back at his presence, his proximity. His heat. He expelled a resigned breath. “Tell me what to do.”
I resisted the urge to lean into him. “Divide it into three sections.”
He hesitated before gently wrapping his hands around my hair. Fresh gooseflesh rose on my arms as he threaded his fingers through the strands. “Now what?”
“Now take an outside section and cross it over the middle section.”
“What?”
“Must I repeat everything?”
“This is impossible,” he