It seemed a fitting epitome of the spirit that had been Fenwick Morchard’s.
Just before the first hint of day dawned into the room, Lucilla and the nurse laid back on to the pillows the form that they had been supporting.
Adrian was crying and shivering like a child.
“Take him downstairs and give him something hot to drink,” the nurse commanded Owen. “There’s a fire in the kitchen.”
Quentillian looked at Lucilla.
“Please go,” she said.
He went downstairs with Adrian.
“If only I’d been better to him! He was awfully good to me, really,” sobbed Adrian. “He used to make an awful fuss of me when I was a little chap, and I wasn’t half grateful enough—beast that I was!”
“Drink this.”
“I can’t.”