The unpleasant oily chill of fever overtook her body, and she watched in horror as Sebastian carried her to his bed on his shoulder like a sack of flour. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. “Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks. “But for you Dad would never have let me marry Lescelles. You are welcome to proclaim yourself ‘Alcide’ if you will.
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