When She Walked With Crows

Chapter Fifteen — Fevered Quiet

Silas worked quickly, clearing the broken glass and fitting the first board into place. The storm had left the frame warped, but he forced it straight, jaw tight with focus and worry.

Behind him, Anwen sat on the porch steps, leaning against the railing. Her breathing had grown shallow, her cheeks flushed with fever. Ink perched beside her, feathers puffed, glaring at Silas like fix it faster.

Silas kept glancing back at her.

Every time he did, she looked a little paler.

When he finished securing the last board, he wiped his hands on his pants and crossed the porch in three long strides.

“You need to lie down,” he said softly.

Anwen tried to smile. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

But when she stood, her knees buckled.

Silas caught her before she hit the floor.

Her breath hitched, her forehead burning against his shoulder. “Sorry,” she whispered, embarrassed.

“Don’t apologize,” he murmured. “Come on.”

He guided her inside, careful and steady, Ink hopping anxiously behind them. The living room was dim, the air still smelling faintly of rain. Silas helped her onto the small couch, pulling a blanket over her.

She shivered.

Silas knelt beside her, brushing damp hair from her forehead. “You’re burning up,” he said again, voice tight.

Anwen blinked slowly, eyes glassy. “I was outside too long. The sheet kept blowing away. I didn’t want the painting to get ruined.”

Silas looked toward the wall where the painting hung — a soft, faded portrait of a family he’d never met but suddenly felt fiercely protective of.

“You shouldn’t have been out there alone,” he whispered.

“I didn’t want you to think I was silly,” she murmured.

Silas shook his head. “I could never think that.”

Her eyes fluttered shut, her breathing uneven. Silas dipped a cloth into a bowl of cool water and pressed it gently to her forehead. She sighed, tension easing from her shoulders.

He stayed like that for hours.

Changing the cloth. Adjusting the blanket. Listening to her breathing. Watching the fever rise and fall in waves.

Ink curled at her feet, occasionally tapping Silas’s arm as if to remind him to keep going.

As evening settled, Anwen drifted in and out of restless sleep. Once, she whispered something he couldn’t quite catch — his name, maybe — before slipping under again.

Silas’s chest tightened.

He didn’t leave her side.

At some point, exhaustion pulled him down too. He rested his head on the edge of the couch, one hand still loosely holding hers, the other draped over the armrest. The cloth slipped from his fingers, forgotten.

The room grew quiet.

The storm outside had long passed, but inside, the air was warm and still, the only sound Anwen’s soft, uneven breaths.

Anwen woke to sunlight filtering through the patched window. Her head felt heavy, her body weak — but warm.

She blinked, turning her head slightly.

Silas was asleep beside the couch, slumped awkwardly in a chair he’d dragged close, his head resting on the cushion near her shoulder. His hair was mussed, his face soft in sleep, one hand still loosely wrapped around hers like he’d never let go.

Ink sat on the back of the chair, watching over both of them like a tiny, feathered guardian.

Anwen’s breath caught.

She lifted her free hand, brushing her fingers lightly through Silas’s hair — a soft, grateful touch.

“You stayed,” she whispered.

Silas didn’t wake.

But his hand tightened around hers, even in sleep.