34
CONNOR
“I think it’s the bubonic plague.”
Lynne was on her knees in the bathroom, hugging the toilet after vomiting for the third time in an hour.
“There haven’t been any cases of bubonic plague in years,” I assured her, wiping her face with a damp cloth, “and you have no fever.”
“You cooked last night,” she remembered.
“What’s that to do with this?” I wanted to know.
“If I’d cooked, this wouldn’t be a surprise,” she said as I helped her back to the bed.
“My poor darling,” I said, kissing her forehead.
“Sure you want to kiss me?” she asked. “I could be contagious.”
“I doubt that, but I’m willing to risk it.” I brushed her hair back off her face. “When did it start?”
“This morning,” she answered. “I’ve been a little queasy for the past week, but no vomiting until now.”
“You’v
