One Breath
I thought for sure I was destined to be a ‘one hit wonder’. However, for better or for worse, here is a second fanfiction. The title I respectfully borrow from my single favorite episode of the X-files. Once again I would like to thank Colorado for her constant support. There is no way this story would have been written without her encouragement. I would also like to thank my best friends, Ilana and Martina, for both their creative and technical advice. You guys are the best.
One Breath
With a feeling of frustration Marguerite Krux slowly opened her eyes and immediately knew something was wrong. Despite what had been a very good night’s sleep, she still felt tired and out of sorts. She had a bit of a headache and also noticed a slight burning in her throat when she swallowed. Sunlight poured through the window into the small section of the treehouse she called her own, a clear message that it was time to begin yet another day in the middle of nowhere. She seriously considered rolling over and going back to sleep but didn’t wish to endure the taunts and sarcasm she just knew she would receive if she dared sleep even later then her usual.
Oh God, I can’t be catching a cold. One of the things that Marguerite prided herself on was a strong constitution. She was very seldomly ill, even as a child. A handful of encounters with the nuns at the convent where she had been schooled and the horrid concoctions they had had the audacity to call "medicine" had taught her very quickly to keep her symptoms to herself. Though Marguerite loved attention, especially from the devilishly handsome lord she shared the treehouse with, she resolved to go about the business of the day with no one else the wiser.
Maybe she would have felt differently had she grown up in a real home with real parents; with a mother and father who loved her and would genuinely worry and, perhaps, even coddle her when she was sick. Unfortunately, that hadn’t been the case. Years of emotional isolation had hardened her and had taught her from an early age to equate illness with weakness. The one thing she would never, ever do was admit weakness to anyone, especially here where weakness could mean the difference between life and death.
I might as well get up and face the day before they send someone in here to drag me out of bed. A cup of tea might even help my sore throat. Since she regularly enjoyed a cup of tea with breakfast, she knew that nobody would suspect her real motives.
Marguerite slowly rose from her bed, and as her head started to spin just as slowly sat back down. OK, Marguerite, that one was for practice. Now it’s time to do it for real. You will not let this stupid bug get the better of you, she repeated over and over again, almost like a mantra, and with that she got up and wrapped herself in her silk robe. A quick glance at her reflection in the mirror had her cringing when she saw the faint circles underneath her eyes. She hoped that no one else would notice.
Marguerite entered the common area and found Ned, Roxton, and Veronica sitting comfortably around the small dining table enjoying the end of their breakfast. Undoubtedly, Challenger was already down in his lab tinkering with whatever new "invention" he was currently inspired by.
"Nice of you to join us, your highness. I hope that your humble servants aren’t responsible for getting you out of bed too early," Roxton said with a sly grin.
It was a game they played regularly. Normally Marguerite dove right in, matching him barb for barb. Today she just wasn’t in the mood, so she did something completely out of character: She simply stuck her tongue out at him and quietly poured herself a cup of tea, thankful they had left her some hot water.
"That was not particularly dignified, my lady," Roxton joked, feigning a hurt expression.
"I don’t think I’m up to dining with the servants today, so I think I’ll take my breakfast elsewhere." With that, Marguerite grabbed a piece of fruit and her tea and headed for her favorite chair on the balcony. Ned and Veronica’s giggles verified that they all thought she was just continuing her game with Roxton. The truth of the matter was that her throat was hurting even more and she was worried someone would notice her wince when sipping her tea.
It was pleasant on the balcony. The last several days had been unseasonably warm, but it appeared to be finally cooling off a bit, perhaps a promise of chilly nights ahead. With her breakfast eaten and the late morning sun pouring on to the balcony, it didn’t take long for Marguerite to doze off again.
Lord John Roxton’s comments about lazy heiresses died on his lips as he approached the balcony and saw Marguerite curled up on a chair and sound asleep. Her beauty took his breath away. Her ebony hair surrounded her like black silk. She had a rosiness to her cheeks Roxton attributed to the time spent sleeping in the sun. It was amazing how peaceful she looked when asleep. It was during these rare moments Roxton felt as though he was getting a glimpse of the real Marguerite hidden beneath so many layers of distrust. It was a shame he had to wake her. Nevertheless, duty called and it was her turn to help him with the hunting.
Lord knows I’m going to catch hell for waking her, but it does give me the opportunity to spend the day with her alone. So with a timidity one wouldn’t expect from a man who had stared down some of the most dangerous animals on the planet, he gently kissed the forehead of his sleeping beauty.
Roxton stopped dead in his tracks and whirled around in frustration as he heard Marguerite’s fifth heavy sigh of the afternoon. His sudden stop caused the heiress to nearly collide with him.
"What?!" Marguerite said defensively, her guard immediately up. She felt horrible.
She was exhausted and was walking around in such a haze that she had run straight into Roxton, not realizing he had stopped in the middle of the path. She was beginning to regret her earlier decision to pretend everything was OK. When Roxton had awakened her earlier, she had been sorely tempted to refuse this little excursion. However, chores were chores and there would have been no graceful way to get out of hunting duty without giving away her secret. She smiled to herself, remembering the soft, tender kiss to her forehead that had awakened her from dreams filled with similar kisses. If I have to be here trudging through the jungle feeling bloody awful, at least it’s with John.
Roxton couldn’t put his finger on anything in particular, but something was most definitely…off. Though he sometimes felt that Marguerite lived to torment him, her uncharacteristic silence was making him uneasy. He had had to slow his pace quite a bit in an effort to help her keep up. They still had not found any prey and were making very poor time. In general, hikes through the jungle with Marguerite normally led to caustic remarks regarding the furious pace he kept; nevertheless, she generally had no problem keeping up. He attributed the sighs and dawdling to a halfhearted attempt on Marguerite’s part to protest her rude awakening three hours earlier. When he had awakened her from her nap he had expected the typical verbal assault that was Marguerite’s stock-in-trade. He was shocked when she simply got up without a sound, changed her clothing, grabbed her rifle and followed him to the elevator. Every time I feel I’ve got her figured out, she throws me for a loop. Serves me right, but I wouldn’t change her for anything in the world. "Are you alright?" Roxton questioned tentatively.
"You stop right in the middle of the blasted path glaring at me, just to ask me if I’m OK?" she asked him harshly, trying to muster up enough enthusiasm for her typical biting remarks.
"Well, pardon me for caring, your highness," and with that Roxton whirled back around and resumed his steady stride through the jungle.
"Can this day possibly get any better?" Marguerite mumbled to no one in particular.
Almost as if some divine source with a cruel sense of humor had been listening, Marguerite heard the crashing of jungle foliage followed by the unmistakable trumpet of a T-Rex. Her complete and utter frustration with the entire predicament almost led to a foolhardy decision to stand and defend herself with the lone rifle she carried. As reason quickly prevailed, Marguerite whirled around and started out in a dead run, frantic to catch up with Roxton. She had assumed that he would only be a short distance up the path and was concerned when she realized that she had been running for several minutes without catching up to him. Her breath was coming in short pants, and she knew that in her weakened state she wouldn’t be able to maintain her pace for much longer. When her path was ultimately blocked by a shallow river she stopped, briefly, to catch her breath, noticing the racing of her heart and the sheen of perspiration that covered most of her body. The day had grown colder, and an errant gust of cool air sent a shiver up her spine causing her to wrap her arms around herself in an effort to stay warm.
"Roxton, where are you?" she whispered to herself. She wanted desperately to call out for him but was afraid of attracting unwanted attention from the T-Rex. A second roar from the large dinosaur had her coming to immediate attention until she realized that the sound was coming from much further away. "Go pick on someone your own size, you overgrown iguana," Marguerite said as relief flooded through her.
"Now is that any way to address the king of the jungle, Marguerite?" came a familiar and very welcome voice from behind her. Turning around slowly, careful not to let the worry she’d been feeling show on her face, Marguerite faced the man she desperately loved as he stood smiling on the other side of the river.
"I had always assumed that you were the king of the jungle, Lord Roxton," Marguerite replied with a smile. As much as she wanted to be angry with him for abandoning her in the first place, her heart just wasn’t in it. She was simply thankful he was safe. The adrenalin rush produced by her mad dash from the dinosaur was beginning to fade and sheer exhaustion was beginning to set in. All she wanted to do was sit down and rest for a while, preferably somewhere warm.
"Well, as your king, I command you to join me on this side of the river so that we can continue hunting for some food. Don’t think that this frolic has gotten you off the hook, my dear."
"John, can’t we rest here for a few minutes?" Marguerite asked mustering up every drop of persuasive power she possessed. A few minutes of rest and I’ll be fine, she thought to herself, trying to ignore the dizziness she was feeling.
"Come on, Marguerite. You know we’ll never here the end of it if we go back to the treehouse empty handed. We’ll give it another hour and then head back, OK?"
Knowing that there was no way out of the situation, Marguerite began crossing the stream, carefully stepping from one flat stone to another. She would wonder later if it had been an unstable rock, the awful dizziness she was feeling, or a combination of the two that caused her to lose her balance. Regardless of the reason, the damage was done as Roxton watched Marguerite flail backwards and land unceremoniously, rump first, in the cold water of the stream. His initial concern for her well-being turned to amusement as he listened to the string of curses issue from his beloved’s lips. It took every ounce of effort he possessed to keep from laughing as he went and fished a soaking wet Marguerite out of the middle of the stream.
It was a silent, steady trip back to the treehouse. Roxton had offered to build a fire to allow Marguerite some time to dry off, but she had been fuming. Roxton’s failed attempts to control his amusement at the whole situation had only infuriated Marguerite even more; she had steadfastly refused the offer of a brief rest, demanding they continue with the hunting, all the while shivering in her wet clothing. Damn stubborn fool, Roxton thought. Why can’t you just ask for help when you need it?
Unbeknownst to Roxton, Marguerite’s thoughts mirrored his own. Her head was pounding and she was shaking so hard she found it difficult to hold on to her rifle. When the jungle started to slowly spin around her, she realized that enough was enough.
"Roxton, I’ve got to stop…" She wasn’t able to finish the request before the dizziness and weakness brought her to her knees.
"Marguerite, what’s wrong?" Roxton had turned at the sound of her voice breaking the silence only to stare in horror as she seemed to slip to the ground like a discarded rag doll. He was instantly beside her. Without a thought, he put his arms around her and held her tightly, still not realizing that there was more going on than just the aftereffects of her unscheduled bath.
"John, I’m so cold," Marguerite said quietly, her chattering teeth making it difficult to get the words out.
"Shhh," he said softly, soothing her like he would a small child. "We’ll sit right here for a few minutes, and I’ll warm you up again." As he continued to hold her shuddering body close to his, he pressed his lips to her forehead, only then noticing the burning heat of fever.
"My God, Marguerite! You’re burning up! How long has this been going on?"
"I haven’t felt well since I woke up this morning," Marguerite replied almost sheepishly. Her secret was out, and she knew Roxton was going to be furious.
"You’ve been ill since this morning, and you didn’t say anything? Marguerite, you’re many things, but I never thought you were stupid! How could you do something like this? Must I remind you that we aren’t in London anymore? We can scarcely afford to tempt fate when it comes to our health."
"My head is pounding, John. Please stop yelling at me," Marguerite replied quietly. She knew it was pointless to argue with him. John is right. I let my pride get the better of my judgment, and now it looks like I’m going to pay for my mistake.
"If you were sick before, God only knows what that fall in the stream is going to do. We’ve got to get you back to the treehouse as quickly as possible." After she got wet, he had offered Marguerite the light jacket he was wearing, but she had stubbornly refused. He now took it off and wrapped it tightly around her. A cold knot of fear was quickly building inside him threatening to overcome his reason.
Marguerite looked up at him with her beautiful gray eyes. Roxton could swear he saw fear in those eyes; fear that she had finally cheated fate one too many times.
"Time to head home," Roxton said quickly. "I’d call for a carriage, my lady, but…"
As he had hoped, Marguerite gave him a weak smile. With Roxton’s help she hauled her protesting body upright. "Why call for a carriage when trudging is so much fun?" Marguerite said with her usual sardonic wit. Roxton couldn’t help but smile. Maybe everything would be OK after all.
________________________________________________________________________
"Challenger, come quickly!"
Professor George Challenger had been so engrossed in his current work that he had barely registered the sound of the moving elevator. Roxton’s anxious cry, however, did get his attention. He exited his lab only to find a very concerned Roxton carrying a disheveled-looking Marguerite in his arms.
"She’s burning up, Challenger," Roxton said as he entered her room and very carefully laid the sleeping woman on the bed. He tenderly brushed several strands of hair off her face, his hand lingering on her warm cheek, until Challenger motioned him into the common area.
"Tell me what happened, Roxton," Challenger said with concern. All he had to do was look at the naked fear in the hunter’s eyes to know something was very wrong.
"She’s been ill since she woke up this morning and never said anything to any of us. While we were hunting, she lost her footing crossing a stream and tumbled in. I tried to convince her to take some time to warm up, but you know how she gets when she’s angry. As near as I can tell, the fever came on about two hours ago."
"Did she mention any other symptoms?" Challenger asked carefully, trying not to make Roxton even more anxious than he was already. The professor had a few suspicions as to what they were dealing with, but he didn’t want to alarm Roxton prematurely.
"She mentioned a headache, a sore throat, and some dizziness. Towards the end of the trip back, she seemed to have a hard time catching her breath. She finally got so exhausted that she stopped refusing my offers to carry her. She fell asleep in my arms about a half hour ago."
Roxton had been staring at Marguerite’s room as he recounted the difficult trip back to the treehouse. He turned to his friend with a sad, lost expression on his face. "What’s wrong with her, George?"
"I’m not a physician, John, so I can only guess. I think what started out as a cold may have turned into something more serious. I’m afraid that the infection has moved into Marguerite’s lungs."
"You don’t mean pneumonia, do you? It can’t be pneumonia. Not here. Not in the middle of the bloody jungle!" Roxton’s face turned ashen as the fear clenched in his belly. "My parents used to tell me about the time I came down with pneumonia as a child. I was about four or five, and they said I almost died. They said it was the most scared they had ever been in their lives. I was in hospital for a week, George, in London, and I still almost died. What chance can she possibly have here?"
Challenger heard the despair threatening to overcome his friend and quickly took charge. He grabbed Roxton by both shoulders and stared into his eyes. "Buckle up, old man," he said emphatically. "You’ve got to stay strong. She’s going to need your strength to help her get through this. Summerlee told me about several different herbs that are potentially useful in this situation, and I’m sure that Veronica’s parents’ journals have lists of all sorts of medicinal plants. I’m going to go check our supply of mustard and willow bark while you go check on Marguerite. Veronica and Ned should be returning from the Zanga village within the hour. Whatever we don’t have here, I’m sure Veronica can find. She knows this plateau better then anybody."
Roxton rose slowly, his normally lithe body feeling stiff with tension. He stopped and looked at Challenger with a pleading expression. "She’s everything to me, George." With that, he turned and headed towards Marguerite’s room.
"I know" was Challenger’s quiet response.
________________________________________________________________________
Ned and Veronica’s laughter was quickly silenced as they exited the treehouse elevator and saw the very worried expression on Challenger’s face.
"Challenger, what’s wrong?" Veronica asked as she set down the provisions they had traded for at the Zanga village. It took a lot to worry George Challenger, so the news he was about to share couldn’t possibly be good.
"Roxton and Marguerite are back, but Marguerite is quite ill. I can’t say with absolute certainty, but I think she may have contracted pneumonia."
Ned and Veronica could only stare in horror as Challenger recounted the day’s events. "What can we do for her?" Ned asked. Though he and Marguerite didn’t always see eye-to-eye, deep down he knew there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do to help her. He knew Veronica felt the same way.
Veronica’s mind, however, was already several steps ahead. "How are the herb stores Challenger?"
"I checked on them earlier. We appear to have plenty of mustard and willow bark. The willow bark should help with the fever and the mustard with the chest congestion. What we’ll need is something to help with her breathing. I took the liberty of paging through some of your parents’ journals, Veronica, and noticed they mentioned an herb called Asclepias Tuberosa. They specifically mention that the root can be used to treat coughs and ease breathing."
"Let me see the picture," Veronica said as she reached for the journal Challenger was holding. She stared at the hand-drawn picture, willing her memory back more then 12 years to a time when her parents were still with her. She and her parents would wander the plateau for hours looking for new flora to add to their journals. After a while, she could identify the various plants and their properties almost as well as they did.
Think, Veronica! Marguerite is depending on you. Where have you seen that plant before? Suddenly, it came to her. "I’ve got it!" she said with a quick smile. "My parents said it was also called pleurisy root or butterfly weed. I remember because I thought that butterfly weed was such a pretty name for a plant. They grow on the edge of the southern forest, about three hours travel from here."
"Then we’d better get going while we still have some light," Ned said matter-of-factly as he began gathering various essentials they would need. "Veronica and I should be able to at least make it to the southern forest by nightfall. We’ll camp overnight and head back at dawn."
"Thank you. Both of you," came Roxton’s unexpected voice from Marguerite’s doorway.
Veronica stared at the man she knew was hurting in ways that none of them could understand. "She’s our friend, too, Roxton. Whatever we can do to help her, we’ll do."
A short time later, Challenger stood on the balcony of the treehouse watching Veronica and Malone head into the jungle in the waning late afternoon light. He couldn’t help but whisper a prayer for their safe and speedy return.
________________________________________________________________________
A single candle was the only light in the room. It was past 2 a.m., and it was Challenger’s turn to sit with Marguerite. He had finally managed to get Roxton to leave her side with the threat that he would be no help to her if he was falling down with exhaustion. Roxton had walked away defeated, begging Challenger to awaken him if there were any change. Unfortunately, there had been none. Her fever was still soaring, and she was extremely restless. Challenger had managed, with some effort, to get several spoonfuls of the willow-bark tea down her throat. That, combined with the cool, wet cloths he had placed on her forehead and behind her neck, would hopefully help break the fever. What was a larger concern, however, was her breathing. Challenger had begun to notice Marguerite’s breathing becoming more labored. The sooner Veronica and Malone returned with the butterfly weed, the better he would feel.
In the meantime he began grinding the mustard seed for a plaster. He had a vague memory of reading about the positive effects of chamomile and thyme placed in boiling water. Supposedly, when inhaled it had both anti-inflammatory and anti-bacterial effects. Arthur, where are you when I need you? This is your forte, not mine. I’m guessing at best!
A moan from Marguerite brought him quickly to attention; all thoughts of his missing friend cast quickly aside. He looked down to see her staring up at him. The moment of relief that he felt at the possibility of a turn for the better disappeared quickly with the single word she said.
"Papa?"
Challenger’s first impulse was to answer "no." The scientist in him protested the thought of pretending to be something he most certainly was not. The man who had come to admire and care for this remarkable woman, however, knew better.
"Yes, my dear child. Your papa is here. How do you feel?"
"I don’t feel very good. My chest hurts really bad, and it’s hard to breathe." Marguerite’s voice was different, higher, her delirium obviously taking her back to her childhood.
Damn! That’s what I was afraid of. She’s got all the signs and symptoms of a bad case of pneumonia.
Challenger decided to take advantage of the fact she was awake to try and feed her more of the willow-bark tea. "Marguerite, my angel, I have to give you some medicine. It’s not going to taste very good, but it’s going to help you feel better. Do you think you can take some for me?"
"Yes, Papa," Marguerite said as she stared up at him with her serious gray eyes. "I’ll do it just for you, but please stay with me. It makes me so sad when you go away. I promise I’ll be a good girl. I won’t bother you while you’re working or leave my dolls on the floor. Please don’t leave me. I don’t want to be all alone again."
Marguerite’s words were like a punch in the stomach. Challenger had long suspected that her less-than-idyllic childhood had done much to create the woman she now was, but hearing the words of a child begging for her father’s love and attention was almost more then he could bear.
"Don’t worry, Marguerite. Your Papa will be right here. I promise I won’t leave you. How could I ever leave my little angel?" With that he leaned down and softly kissed her cheek, briefly tasting the salt of her silent tears. He never knew that Roxton stood silently in the doorway behind him, shedding his own tears for a childhood forever lost.
The day dawned gray and gloomy, matching the mood of the treehouse. Challenger stared at the storm clouds poised ominously to the south with deep concern. It was a little past 8 a.m., and Ned and Veronica had yet to return. His fear was their trip back had been hampered by the poor weather. In the meantime, Marguerite was getting worse. Her fever had yet to break, and her breath wheezed and rattled in her chest. Her fingernails had a bluish tinge to them, a warning that fluid in her lungs was hampering the delivery of oxygen to the tissue. Challenger was doing everything he could think of and more. He and Roxton continued to dose her with willow bark tea and mustard plasters. They had placed chamomile and thyme leaves in boiling water and forced Marguerite to inhale the fumes. Still, there was no change.
I need that butterfly weed. Nothing I’m doing is helping her, Challenger thought. He ran his hand through his thick, red hair, his fingers stopping momentarily to work the aches out of his stiff neck. Neither he nor Roxton had gotten much sleep last night and both wore the signs. He walked past the door of Marguerite’s room, glancing in to see a bleary-eyed, unshaven Roxton continuing to keep a vigil by his beloved’s bedside.
Roxton looked up at him, his eyes asking the question that made words unnecessary. "No, they’re not back yet," Challenger said quietly. "There are storm clouds to the south, and I’m afraid the weather has held them up. They would have been back by now otherwise."
Roxton’s dark eyes seemed to darken even more as he heard the news. He vaguely heard Challenger tell him that he was off to prepare another mustard plaster, but nothing else seemed to register. His whole body felt numb with the exception of the hand that held Marguerite’s hand. That union of flesh against flesh was like a lifeline, as if somehow through the physical contact he could somehow will his strength to her. He used his other hand to gently lift up a corner of the mustard plaster and dutifully checked the skin underneath for blistering. Though it was red, the skin appeared unblemished. Some of the plaster had leaked around the cloth they used and had stained her camisole yellow in several places. He smiled for a moment as he thought of what Marguerite’s reaction would be. She’ll probably demand that we be more careful with her precious clothing the next time we save her life. At the very least she’ll pester Challenger to invent something to get the stains out. That’s my girl; a fighter through and through.
"You listen to me, Marguerite," Roxton said emphatically. He wasn’t sure she could even hear him, but at the moment he didn’t care. "You will not let this beat you. You have never walked away from a fight in your entire life, and I’m not going to let you start now. I once sat here by your bedside and told you that I didn’t think I could ever leave this place without you by my side. You heard me then, and I hope to God that you can hear me now. I love you, Marguerite. I love you so much that it scares me sometimes; the way I know it scares you sometimes. You are not only my present; you are my future as well. I need you to get better, my love. You have to get better," he finally choked out.
It was less than an hour later when an exhausted and muddy Veronica stepped into Marguerite’s room and saw Roxton sound asleep in the bedside chair still holding Marguerite’s hand. She quietly walked over to him and gently nudged him awake. A momentary panic was silenced when he saw Veronica standing in front of him.
"Did you find it?" he asked, almost hesitantly.
"Yes," she said with a smile. "It was right where I remembered. We would have been here sooner if it hadn’t been for the bad weather. Challenger has the plants and has started making the medicine. Hopefully, this will do the trick." She stared down at the young woman who had gone from being a general nuisance to the closest thing to a sister she had ever had. She prayed that the plants she and Malone had brought back would help.
Veronica was headed out the door on her way to clean herself up when she heard Roxton call her name.
"Thank you," he said with so much emotion, it almost made her heart break.
"What are friends for?" she asked as she turned and headed for the shower.
Five days had gone by since the afternoon Roxton had stumbled into the treehouse holding Marguerite in his arms. Most of those days were a complete blur. Marguerite had been told some of the details. Roxton had carried her back to the treehouse and had barely left her side since. Veronica and Malone had risked their own lives to find the butterfly weed and return it to the treehouse. Challenger had used the plant to make the decoction that had ultimately saved her life. Though Marguerite had become adept over the years at looking out for her own welfare, she was unaccustomed to this response from others. It felt strange to know these four people would risk life and limb to protect her. It felt even stranger to know she would do the same for them in a heartbeat.
She looked over at the bedside chair, where Roxton sat reading aloud from a book of poetry that had belonged to Veronica’s parents. Everyone was taking turns keeping her entertained as Challenger felt it would be several more days before she was strong enough to get out of bed for any length of time. She couldn’t help but think back to some of the fevered dreams she had had during the worst parts of her illness. She had been so very tired. The thought of just letting herself drift away had been sorely tempting. It was with something akin to frustration that she found she couldn’t. It was as if some earthbound force had grabbed on to her and wouldn’t let her go. She was fairly certain that earthbound force resided in the man sitting in the chair next to her.
Roxton looked up from his book to find Marguerite staring at him. "Has my reading bored you already, my lady?" he asked with a grin.
"No. Not at all," Marguerite replied. "It’s just that I want to tell you something. Something important."
Roxton was up in an instant, concerned etched on his face. "What is it? Is something wrong? Does something hurt?"
"No, John," she said soothingly, as she tried to ease his fear and panic. "How can I be anything but fine with four mother hens flocking around when I so much as sneeze?"
"Then what is it?" Roxton asked.
"I’ve spent most of my life with no one to count on but myself. After a while, you start to think there is nothing life can throw at you that you can’t handle. I’m not used to asking for help, John. I’m certainly not used to having people around who are willing to help and want nothing in return. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you enough to ask for help when I needed it, and I’m truly sorry to have caused you so much worry."
Roxton moved onto the bed next to her. Brown eyes stared into gray ones as he gently pressed his lips to hers in a feather-light kiss.
A nervous cough from behind him told Roxton that Challenger had arrived for the next shift. He rose from Marguerite’s bed, his hand holding hers lightly.
"I worry because I care," he said lovingly. "And I always will."
"She’s all yours, George," he said as he handed Challenger to book of poetry and exited the room. He could barely contain his amusement when he heard Marguerite ask Challenger to forego poetry reading in favor of inventing something to get the stains out of her favorite camisole.