Mace brings me a tray of food—soup, half a loaf of bread and water. He puts the tray carefully on the bed and helps me sit up, placing the thinly-stuffed pillow behind my back.
“I’m not really hungry, you know,” I say.
He presses the back of his hand against my forehead to feel my temperature. I shake his hand away. He frowns. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” I lie, and I’m pretty sure he knows that’s a lie. I might be hungry, but I don’t have much of an appetite.
He hums. Just as I think he's going to put the tray of food away, he breaks off a chunk of bread and brings it to my mouth. “You still have to eat,” he says. “You can’t sleep on an empty stomach.” I open my mouth to tell him I really don’t feel like eating, but he says, “Come on, open up.”
I comply and open my mouth and ta
