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Arthur had only the vaguest memory of his coach ride back to Ring; he was caught in a sort of half-asleep state, roiling in and out of nausea and strange dreams as the carriage jostled over the streets from Hillingham. The crook of his arm burned where the needle had stabbed him, he felt hot and feverish, and his whole body ached as if he'd been doing vigorous exercise all day.
But at last he was home, stumbling out of the cart and leaning heavily on the servant, Morgan, who had rushed up to assist him. It was late in the evening, the last glow of dusk fading under the lamps lit along the front of the building. His head swam and he only vaguely heard the conversation between Morgan and the coachman, who explained what had happened and handed Morgan the doctor's note that Jack had written, prescribing him food and rest. Morgan hitched Arthur's left, uninjured arm over his shoulders and steadied him as they walked inside.
"I want to check on Father," Arthur said, his voice hazy.
"He is well," Morgan said. "You can see him in the morning."
"No, now," Arthur said, a bit more forcefully than he intended. "Just for a moment." He felt a sudden stab of panic— Lucy's sickly face was still haunting him, and he felt in the moment that his father's health could've taken a turn for the worse as easily as hers.
Morgan gave a long-suffering sigh, but he guided Arthur up the stairs and down the hallway to the wing where his father's bedroom was.
When they reached the door, Arthur slid his arm off, steadying himself on the ornate handle instead, and cracked the door slightly open, poking his head in. The room was dark save for a lamp on the far side, where his father's nurse was drowsing over a book in her lap. She looked up and made to stand up at seeing Arthur, but he smiled at her and shook his head, the signal that all the servants had learned meant to go about their business without indulging in formalities.
He had tried to open the door as quietly as possible, but he heard his father stir in the giant four-poster canopy bed, and his voice— still a bit hoarse from the laryngitis— called softly, "Is that you, Artie?"
Arthur stepped inside, shuffling his feet along the rug and holding his hands out to try to keep balance. He felt like he was both drunk and hungover at once. Morgan waited silently by the door.
"Sorry," Arthur said, "I didn't mean to wake you up." His father was much as he'd left him, covered in a thick blanket despite the stuffiness of the room, and propped up by pillows against the great headboard, to make it easier for him to breathe.
Arthur couldn't stay standing any longer; he sank down on the bed by his father's side, reaching out to take his hand. It was still clammy, as if remembering the fever that had only broken this morning. Arthur raised the hand to his lips before releasing it, and then, with an exhausted sigh, yielded to the pull of gravity and slumped down onto the bed, stretching out onto his back. The room spun faintly before his eyes.
"What's the matter?" his father asked, his hand brushing through Arthur's curls. "You look ill."
Arthur closed his eyes, which still didn't help the spinning feeling, and focused on the comfort of his father's hands carding through his hair. He couldn't tell if he was running a fever, or just feeling flushed. "I've had quite a day."
His father's thumb pressed gently into the front of his forehead, between his eyes, easing a headache that Arthur hadn't even noticed was building. "How was Lucy?" his father asked, his voice quiet and a bit tense.
Arthur drew a measured breath. For an instant, he thought that perhaps he should not tell him. But then he almost laughed at himself. Not tell his father something? Ridiculous! Besides, it was his lungs that the doctor worried about, not his heart. "She was terrible," Arthur said, with a breathy huff, as if a mockery of laughter would ease the horror of the day. "Jack's doctor friend said that she was on the brink of death. I didn't even get to see her awake— we had to do an emergency operation to save her life."
His father's hand paused, then moved to rest on his shoulder, squeezing gently. "I'm so sorry," he said with feeling. "Was it a success?"
"The doctor said it was. Jack seemed to think so, too. It was the strangest, most morbid thing. A blood transfusion." Arthur opened his eyes, and found that the whole world had gone blurry with tears. "They stuck a giant needle in my arm," he said, still trying to moderate his voice through a bitter smile, "and drew my blood out, and gave it to Lucy. And it worked. They said it worked." He held up his right arm, wrapped in bandages, which still burned him.
His father touched the bandage lightly, pulling away when Arthur flinched. He looked down at him, but Arthur didn't meet his eyes. "And are you all right?"
Arthur nodded, feeling as if a stone had lodged in his throat. "I'm quite fine. Jack gave me port and said it would replenish my blood. I've eaten half my weight in biscuits today. It's fine. I just…" Now that he was talking, he couldn't seem to stop. He shouldn't bother his ill father with such things, but as he spoke, he began to tremble, as the weight of what had happened today began to press against him. "It hurt so terribly much. I'm afraid I was not brave at all. It was awful, Papa. Awful. Lucy looked more like a corpse than a living girl— she was so pale— it was so awful." He couldn't lay on his back anymore; he needed to curl in on himself, like a child in a womb. He rolled onto his side, his face pressed against his father's side, and within a moment he was sobbing so hard that he couldn't speak.
His father shifted down to place both arms around him. His embrace was weaker than before, and Arthur missed the feeling of being small, able to be utterly crushed by his father's strong hugs— a father who seemed immortal and immovable, who made the whole concept of death so far away. His arms were weaker now, but still comforting. He held onto Arthur as if he were a child and not a grown man, bigger than his own father, weeping in his bed.
Like every storm of tears, it eventually passed, and Arthur was left gasping and feeling more dizzy but less dammed up with horrible emotions than before. He rolled onto his back again, and his father's hand was still on his shoulder, massaging gently, reminding him that, at least for the moment, he was not alone.
"Can I sleep with you tonight?" Arthur asked, his voice still thick with tears.
"Of course." There was no hesitation. Even though it was ridiculous for a grown man to sleep next to his father, Arthur didn't want to be in an empty bed tonight. He thought of Lucy, whose mother had refused to sleep with her, and felt a lump in his throat. He had never been so grateful for his father as he was now.
"Morgan," his father said softly, and Morgan (with another poorly-concealed long-suffering sigh) went to fetch Arthur's night-clothes and help him get ready for bed. In a few minutes Arthur was in his night-shirt and pyjama pants, and he crawled under the covers next to his father. It was far too hot for such thick blankets, but he liked the weight of them, the feeling of swaddling himself in something.
"I hope this is all right," his father said, almost to himself. "I have heard that sharing a bed with one who is ill is unhealthy. The weaker sleeper can impart poor health to the stronger one."
Arthur knew he should take the science seriously, especially since a scientific miracle had saved dear Lucy's life today, but he just couldn't bear to. "Nonsense," he said, his voice a bit slurred, wriggling deeper under the blankets. "Jack is always telling me that I emanate strong young manhood. I'm sure I'll be perfectly all right."
There was a short pause. "Jack tells you that?" his father asked.
"All the time." Arthur closed his eyes. The spinning of his head was less disconcerting now; it was almost pleasant, like the dizziness of riding a carousel.
His father chuckled softly.
"What?" Arthur asked, already half asleep.
"Nothing. Sweet dreams, Artie."
"You too."
His father's hand rested on his shoulder, warm and steadying. Even his aching body couldn't keep off the exhaustion. Within minutes, the spinning dizziness faded into sleep.