Chapter Text
It’s been raining for hours.
Yor stands by the tall windows of their apartment looking out at the lamp-lit street below. It’s difficult to tell in the dark, but in the warm buttery glows that surround the streetlamps she can see the rain still cording down.
Loid is late.
Anya went to bed hours ago, having fallen asleep twice in the middle of her homework. Yor would like to be the type of mother who knows how to be both strict and kind, but she only knows the latter and so folds like a house of cards and puts the little girl to bed rather than waking her to study more. Now she stands at the window with a cup of coffee that will probably keep her awake later, waiting for her husband to come home.
It's not exactly unexpected, Loid’s late return. He had told her he would be home after dinner, asked her to arrange for delivery. She had tried to cook instead, attempted a spaghetti Bolognese which had somehow ended up looking like crispy snake skins. Yor had once heard Camilla tell the other women at work that Yor was missing a few bricks, and she doesn’t know about that because she’s never owned a house, but she does sometimes wonder if she was put together like a puzzle only to have some of the pieces removed. She doesn’t know why she can’t cook, or gossip, or fit in at parties. She just can’t. But if an invisible hand removed those pieces, whose hand was it, and where are they now? Could she find them, if she looked hard enough?
Yor turns away from these thoughts and watches a man in heavy rain gear run across the square down below as the tall tower clock strikes twelve. In the fairy tales Yuri had liked as a child, midnight was always important. The magic broke at midnight, the dream world shattering to be replaced by reality. Her dream world is this life, this happy role as a wife and mother, and she doesn’t want it to end. She –
Behind her the door slams open. She turns, very careful not to spill her coffee because if this is an intruder the hot liquid will make an excellent weapon, and sees Loid step into the apartment. He’s wearing just his green suit, no rain coat, no umbrella. Very unlike him – he’s a careful dresser, his wardrobe pristine.
Loid comes into the apartment literally dripping wet, big drops of rain running off his cuffs and the hem of his jacket to fall and darken the wooden floor. He pulls open his tie, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt, and runs a hand through his hair. It too is damp, his hat missing. His hair tangles against the black leather of his gloves, wheat-blond against black. Yor likes his hair, likes the bright brilliance of it; it’s so pristine, so unstained. Something she will never be.
“You’re back late,” she says. “Is everything alright?”
He strips his jacket off his body, his white shirt sticking to his skin so that the paleness shows through the thin, soaked cotton. Yor’s eyes catch the curves of his ribs, the lines of his pecs, before she pulls them away, blushing. Loid isn’t trying to be seductive; he is simply wet and cold. She can see him shivering, and she comes across the room. “I could make you some hot tea? Or coffee?”
“No, thanks. Everything’s fine, just an emergency with one of my patients.”
“You look like you took a dip in the river,” she says, sympathetically. Loid laughs with what sounds like forced humour.
“I’m fine. I’ll get changed and go to bed, I think. Sorry for keeping you up.” He sneezes suddenly, blinking in surprise, and fishes his handkerchief out of his pocket. They both look at the wet sopping mess of cloth, and then Yor reaches into her handbag still sitting by the front door and pulls out her own. It’s dainty, edged in lace, bought for Camilla’s party.
“Here,” she says, worried. “Don’t catch cold.”
“I never catch colds,” says Loid, and blows his nose into the cotton square. Then he sneezes again. “Ugh. I’m going to bed. Goodnight, Yor.”
“Goodnight, Loid,” she says, and watches with worried eyes as he walks to his room, shivering the whole way.
***
Every morning has its routine. Routines are what families have, and perfect families have perfect routines. At least, that’s how Yor thinks it must work. In any case, every morning is the same for them. Wake up, wash her face, make tea while Loid cooks breakfast, eat breakfast as a family, wash up, get dressed, and take Anya to the bus stop.
This morning, she gets to step three. When she comes out into the kitchen, usually bright and smelling of eggs and bacon or fresh bread and jam, it’s dark and cold. Empty. Yor frowns as she walks through the familiar space, running her fingers over the smooth countertops as if they could tell her what’s wrong. She fills up the kettle as usual and puts it on, then picks up a cloth and cleans the backsplash. The backsplash doesn’t need cleaning. She is meticulously neat, her one good quality as a wife, and right now it helps her work through her confusion.
Loid must have slept in. Maybe he’s having a nice dream. Maybe he’s going to take the morning off, and forgot to tell her. Maybe he wants her to bring him breakfast in bed. That’s a thing wives do for their husbands, isn’t it? Toast and tea on a tray with a new jar of jam and a perfect pat of butter? Yor can probably make toast, it’s just bread that’s been exposed to enough heat to boil blood. Toasters aren’t very good murder weapons, though, since the only thing that would fit inside would be hands and burned hands don’t kill. Although as a blunt object perhaps… she turns to contemplate the toaster.
“Mama?”
Yor blinks and looks down at Anya, who has crept up while she contemplated the murderous properties of the household toaster. “Good morning, Anya.”
“Where’s Papa?”
“I think he must be sleeping in. I’ll make breakfast this morning, won’t that be nice?” She smiles.
The little girl backs away slowly. “Anya wants Papa to cook,” she says.
“Anya, we shouldn’t –” but the little girl is already running away, down the hall that leads to the bedrooms. To Loid’s bedroom. “Anya, wait!” Yor runs after her but Anya has a good lead and makes it to the door first. She turns the knob and throws it open.
“Papa!”
“Anya, shh,” says Yor, grabbing her from behind, her arms around that little body. Surely, though, between the door slamming open and the shouting the damage is done. Even the dullest of potential victims would have heard such a racket. Yor peers into the darkness of Loid’s room, all blues and greens that look grey in the dimness, but there’s no greeting. Nothing except the low, raspy sound of breathing. From this distance, Loid’s breathing shouldn’t be audible.
“Loid?” says Yor, tentatively. Maybe he is sleeping in, maybe Anya didn’t wake him and they should just creep out and leave him alone.
“Eden,” whispers a harsh voice. “Anya. Eden. Stella. Nnh.” On the bed Loid turns, twists, his white sheets tangled around his body. As Yor’s eyes adjust to the dimness in the room she can see that the duvet is half cast off, and that the bed is in disarray. Half-exposed, like something flimsy and fragile rather than the strong husband who leads their household, Loid lies panting.
Yor slips in on silent feet, cautious of these unfamiliar floorboards, of the faded daylight that’s filtering in through the damask curtains. She has never been in this room before, only seen it occasionally as Loid passed in or out. Large double bed with a heavy wooden frame, modern chair and lamp, tall bookcase. And in the bed, her so-called husband, damp with sweat and trapped in the nest of sheets twisted around his long form.
“Can’t – nnh, four months – failing… ugh.” Loid’s face is tight, trapped in an expression of pain. His voice is hoarse, his hair plastered to his skull. Yor reaches out uncertainly and presses the tips of two fingers to his forehead. His skin is hot to the touch, not warm but hot.
Loid’s eyes snap open and he jerks like a man in a cadaveric spasm, an unnatural nervous reaction. She hears the breath sucked into his lungs, sees his wide unfocused eyes, and then it passes and he drops down into the mattress again, panting roughly.
“Papa’s all swirly,” says Anya beside Yor’s leg, shifting from leg to leg dizzily. “Whirr whirr…”
“Oh, Loid,” she says, dismayed.
Focus. She has to focus. Dismay doesn’t help anyone. First thing’s first: Loid is feverish, his temperature soaring. She hurries into the bathroom and gets a face cloth, soaks it through with icy water from the tap – the hot water in this apartment always takes several minutes to come on. She returns with it and carefully brushes Loid’s hair back, places it on his forehead.
“Anya, please go get dressed. I’ll make toast for breakfast, and then you’ll have to go to the bus stop on your own. Can you do that?”
“But Papa’s all whirr whirr,” says Anya, her little hands fisted in Loid’s half-loose bed clothes.
“I know, but I’ll take care of him. You just need to go to school. You know how important school is to Loid,” she says, directly appealing to Anya’s sensibilities. The little girl nods.
“Super big world peace thing,” she says, head swaying a little. Yor blinks, but ignores this rambling.
“So please, go get dressed. School uniform and shoes. Right?”
“H’okay.” Anya pulls herself away and stomps off in the direction of her room with big high steps, as though walking through a snow drift. Yor doesn’t have time to watch her go, she’s already in the kitchen pulling slices of bread out of the bread box and jamming them in the toaster. She doesn’t know how long toast takes so she turns it all the way up, then leaves it to go to the phone.
There’s only the cleaning lady in the office at this time of the morning; Yor gives her the message that she has to stay home today and asks her to pass it on to the office manager. Then she runs to get dressed herself, so she can go out and get some medicine for Loid.
By the time this is done Anya is out in the kitchen. “Mama,” she calls. “The toast’s all burny.”
Yor hurries back and stares at the black crusts of the toast in dismay. The toaster isn’t done with its havoc and she doesn’t know how to make it spit the bread out, so she unplugs it and fishes the toast out with a fork. It’s black and charcoal-covered on the edges and just deep brown in the centre. She puts it on plates, cuts the edges off neatly, and smears it with butter. Maybe that will disguise the taste.
It’s moments like these that Yor realises just how inadequate she is as a wife. A real wife would know who Loid’s physician is, where the nearest pharmacy is, whether he has any medication allergies or history of fevers. She feels deeply useless as she sees off Anya, still grumbling about breakfast, and goes into the small ice box to pull out a tray of ice and dump it in a bowl with water.
She returns with the ice water and finds Loid tossing his head, the tendons in his neck straining, his throat exposed. For the first time she realises just how vulnerable this husband of hers is, and the thought scares her. She puts down the ice water and refreshes the towel, padding gently at his fevered skin. “Anya… stella… Styx…” is what she hears. Is Loid dreaming about the river of the underworld? Is he dying? People die of fevers, she has a powder in her medicine cabinet that causes fever and muscle degradation, the victim cooking in their beds, too weak to call for help.
“Loid?” she whispers, pressing the cool cloth against his forehead. “Loid? Please don’t die. I don’t want you to die.”
His eyelashes flutter. It’s the first time she’s noticed them; they’re dark but not quite black, short but thick. Handsome. She brushes her thumb against his hot cheek, feeling a matching heat rise in her own.
“Nno, just… swim, swim… stella…” he’s muttering nonsense, fever dreams. She gets up to check the bathroom and finds that they have a thermometer, which doesn’t surprise her because Loid places great value in being prepared. She takes it back and uses her hand to pull open his mouth. He reacts violently, one arm shooting up so fast it grabs her under the chin. “Don’t… no,” he says, then his eyes slip closed and the hand falls away. Yor, shocked by his reflexes, slips the thermometer in under his tongue and counts the time off by the ticking clock on the wall.
When it comes out she takes it over to the window and opens the curtains to see how high the mercury has risen. 103. High, approaching the point of danger: brain damage, febrile seizures, death. “Loid…”
“Clock… river… tick…” Loid’s head rolls on his pillow, his face an ugly grey.
Yor refreshes the cool cloth once again, carefully washing his fevered skin. He turns towards her touch and she runs the cloth down the long line of his throat, wiping away the sweat. He makes a soft sound of relief that somehow touches her. Loid has been conspicuous throughout their false relationship by his politeness and his praise, and Yor has felt him to be genuine, but it’s always hard to know for sure. This sound, this sigh, this is genuine.
For the first time he needs her. Not a woman, not a mother for his child, not a wife to satisfy Eden or the neighbours. Just her, Yor.
“I’ll take care of you,” she says, squeezing the cloth. “Don’t worry, Loid.”