Echoes of a silver vow

Chapter 6

The doctor arrived with his usual quiet efficiency. His calm demeanor was a stark contrast to the frantic energy of my family. He asked polite, routine questions as he checked my pulse, my temperature, the clarity of my eyes.

“Do you feel any different, Lillian?” he asked, his tone casual, but his dark eyes were intent, searching. “Anything unusual? Any… visions or strange thoughts?”

The question felt odd, specific in a way that prickled at the edges of my mind. But the lingering weakness and the relief of being awake pushed the feeling aside. “No,” I answered honestly. “Just weak. And tired.”

He nodded, seemingly satisfied, and began packing his instruments away. It was then that the fragmented memory surfaced—a single, clear detail from the chaotic swirl of the dream.

“I did have a dream,” I said softly, more to myself than to him. “I can’t remember it. It’s all… broken. But I remember a name. Selene.”

I saw my mother flinch as if struck. The color drained from her face so completely I thought she might faint. She gripped the bedpost, her knuckles white.

Doctor Asher turned back slowly. “Selene?” he repeated, his voice carefully neutral. “And what else? Did you see anyone? Hear anything?”

His calm probing helped. I focused, trying to grasp the slippery fragments. “A man, I think. But it’s all foggy. I just remember feeling… scared.” I shook my head, the effort making me dizzy. “That’s all. It’s gone now.”

As the words left my mouth, I saw the tension seep from my mother’s frame. The terrible pallor receded, replaced by a weary relief. She offered me a tremulous smile.

Doctor Asher gave a final, brief nod. “Rest is the best medicine now.” He picked up his bag and left the room. Mother murmured something about seeing him out and followed, closing the door behind her.

The moment they were gone, the atmosphere shifted. Madeline plopped onto the edge of my bed, a familiar, mischievous glint returning to her eyes. “Well, look at you. You gave us quite a scare. You’re as pale as a ghost and your hair is a complete disaster. A real fright.”

I couldn’t help it. A weak, breathy laugh escaped me. It felt strange and wonderful after the suffocating fear.

Catherine swatted Madeline’s arm playfully. “Don’t listen to her. You look beautiful.” She tucked the blankets more firmly around me, her touch gentle. “Just focus on getting your strength back.”

Their familiar bickering and concern wrapped around me like a warm blanket, pushing the last remnants of the strange, terrifying dream into the far corners of my mind. For now, it was enough to be here, with them, in the safe, solid reality of my sunlit room.

The door clicked open again and Mother swept back in, her expression a familiar mask of exasperated affection. "Out, both of you. Your sister needs to rest, not be subjected to your nonsense." She shooed them away with a flick of her wrist. Madeline stuck her tongue out at me before she left, and Catherine gave my hand one last reassuring squeeze.

Once they were gone, Mother came and sat on the edge of my bed. She smoothed my hair back from my forehead, her touch lingering. "You gave me such a fright, my little flower. Just sleep now and no more excitement. I'm sorry we couldn't make it to the picnic" Her voice was soft, but I could hear the tremor she was trying to hide. I nodded, already feeling the heavy pull of exhaustion dragging me back under. The last thing I felt was her cool lips on my forehead before sleep claimed me again.

I woke the next morning feeling hollowed out but clear-headed. Sunlight streamed through my window, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. A whole layer of it had settled on my dresser. It was downright shameful. I needed a rag.

Padding quietly down the stairs, I followed the scent of roasting meat and herbs to the kitchen. Mrs. Nettle was there, her back to me, stirring a large pot simmering on the stove. A beautiful joint of meat, glazed and crackling, rested on a platter beside her. The kitchen was a warm, fragrant hive of activity.

"Mrs. Nettle?" I said, my voice still a bit rough. "Could I trouble you for a clean cloth? My room is—"

She jumped, whirling around with a hand to her chest. "Miss Lillian! Saints above, don't creep up on an old woman like that. You should be in bed! What do you need a cloth for?"

"Just to dust my room a little. The sun's out and I can see every speck."

"Absolutely not," she huffed, waving a wooden spoon at me. "Your mother would have my head. You’ll do no cleaning. Back upstairs with you this instant. I’ll bring you a tray."

"But I feel fine," I insisted, taking a step closer. "Really. I can help you peel the potatoes, even. I just need to do something."

We were in the middle of this quiet argument when Mother’s voice cut through the kitchen from the doorway. "Lillian."

I turned. She stood there, her arms crossed, but the stern look on her face didn't quite reach her eyes. They were soft, worried. "What did I say about resting? The dust will keep. Come away from there."

She didn't wait for a reply, just came over and took my arm, guiding me gently but firmly out of the kitchen and toward the dining room. "Mrs. Nettle has everything in hand. You will not lift a finger. Is that understood?"

"I was only going to dust," I mumbled.

"I know," she said, her tone easing. She stopped walking and turned to face me, her hands on my shoulders. "But you need to regain your strength. Properly. I need you to be well." The words were simple, but the intensity behind them was a physical weight. Her fear from the previous day was still there, just beneath the surface.

I placed my hand over hers. "I am well, Mother. Truly. You don't need to worry so."

She searched my face for a long moment, then her shoulders relaxed a fraction. A small, relieved sigh escaped her. "Good. That's my girl. Now, let's get you settled for lunch."

The meal was a lively affair. Madeline was recounting some ridiculous story about a client, making Catherine snort into her napkin. Mother presided over it all, pouring tea and nodding along. But I noticed the way her eyes kept flicking to me, checking, assessing. Every time I took a bite, her stern expression eased just a little. She passed me the dish of honey-glazed carrots twice without me asking.

That was only the beginning. The next week felt like being trapped in a cocoon of stifling kindness. I was forbidden from everything. No sweeping, no dusting, no helping in the kitchen, no trips to the market. I was ordered to rest, to sit, to be still.

At first, the fatigue made it easy to obey. But as my strength returned, the inactivity became a special kind of torture. I felt… moldy. My muscles, once used to a day’s work, grew soft and restless. I’d pace the length of my room until I felt dizzy, just to feel my body move. The view from my window became a taunt—the world was going on without me. I could hear the market vendors calling, the laughter from the street, the sound of life happening just beyond my pane of glass.

I read every book on my shelf twice. I folded and refolded my shawls. I arranged my hairpins by color and then by size. The walls of my room, once a comfort, felt like they were slowly closing in. The quiet of the house, usually so peaceful, began to buzz in my ears. I was drowning in well-meaning concern, and I’ve never felt more restless in my life. I was healing, but I was rotting from the inside out from sheer, utter boredom.