Page 81 of Gwen and Art Are Not in Love

‘A couple of weeks ago?’ Arthur said, panic constricting his throat. ‘How – how long have I been here?’ Gabriel didn’t reply. In the darkness, his vision blurring and his eyes feeling strangely hot, Arthur couldn’t be entirely sure that he was still there. ‘Gabriel?’

‘It’s been a month,’ Gabriel said, and Arthur released a breath that sounded suspiciously like a sob. ‘Don’t cry,’ Gabriel said, suddenly a lot closer. He was sitting on the edge of the bed. He seemed to be holding Arthur’s hot, sweaty hand.

‘I’m not crying,’ Arthur said, but if that was true, why was his face so wet? And why was it so hard to breathe? It really wasunbearablywarm. His lungs were on fire. He wanted to ask Gabriel to open a window – to throw himoutof the window – to throw him in the moat and let him sink to the cool, blissful bottom.

‘I’m here,’ Gabriel said quietly.

‘No, you’re not,’ Arthur said, crying in earnest now, feeling each laboured breath rattle through him until his bones hurt.

‘Yes I am,’ Gabriel said, putting a hand to Arthur’sforehead. Arthur had no idea how he was alive, with a hand that cold.

‘Don’t go,’ he muttered, closing his eyes. It felt like a spell, or a prayer; like repeating it would make it so. ‘Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go.’

Of all the disturbing sights the world had to offer, Sidney cryinghad to be the worst of them. It was so disarming that Arthur felt annoyed; howdareSidney cry, howdarehe do something so utterly unlike himself when Arthur was the only one who should be allowed to be afraid?

‘Shut up,’ he said through chattering teeth. Sidney roughly wiped the tears from his cheeks, and didn’t laugh. His eyes were bloodshot, the skin underneath them so dark it looked bruised. ‘You look like shit.’

‘You look like a skeleton,’ Sidney said, his voice hard, his eyes cast downwards. ‘You look like you’ve already been dead a week.’

‘Maybe I have,’ Arthur said, feeling a wave of nausea rush over him. He felt hollow. He had no idea when he’d last eaten; he had a vivid memory of somebody helping him to the chamber pot though, which he’d quite like to forget. ‘I don’t really want to know the answer to this question, but – did somebody cut off my hair? Do I have any … left?’

‘A bit,’ Sidney said grimly.

‘Damn it,’ Arthur said wistfully. It was only hair, but it wasverynice hair.

‘I messed up,’ Sidney said quietly, still staring at his hands. ‘I really messed it all up, Art.’

‘No you didn’t,’ Arthur said mildly.

‘Don’t say that,’ Sidney said, standing up. ‘Don’t tell me what I didn’t do. I know exactly what I didn’t bloody do.’

‘You can shout at me all you want when I’m dead,’ Arthur said. Sidney kicked the chair he’d been sitting in, and it ricocheted loudly off the bed frame. ‘Ow.’

‘Shit,’ said Sidney. ‘Shit. Did I hurt you?’

‘Head,’ Arthur said, feeling pain erupt through it. ‘Can you – whatever they were sending me to sleep with, can you …’

Sidney was already striding from the room to fetch it.

Gwen wasn’t sleeping. She wasn’t doing much else, either. All wedding planning had been put on hold until they could be absolutely sure there would still be a groom, and even her mother was leaving her alone. This should have been a relief, but Gwen found herself with far too much time on her hands and nothing to fill it with. Once, she had longed for nothing more than her life of solitude, but now it felt somewhat hollow; the only bright spots in her day were the times when Bridget could get away from the last events of the tournament and come to sit with her.

‘Who’s with him?’ Bridget said now, as Agnes let her into the room. She was holding a plate of spiced buns studded with currants. ‘Elaine sent these for you, from the kitchens.’

‘Oh. Oh – thank her, for me,’ Gwen said from her armchair. Her eyes felt raw and swollen from crying. She was wrung out and useless, incapable of doing even the smallest task. ‘Sid is with him. He needs a proper break, though.’

‘He won’t take one,’ said Agnes, sighing. ‘Even when he’s not there, he’s not sleeping.’

Gwen could have askedhowexactly Agnes knew thatSidney wasn’t sleeping, but by this point, it was pretty self-explanatory.

‘Did they say anything more about his head?’ Bridget asked, putting down the plate and coming to sit with Gwen. The bruising hadn’t seemed too bad at first, but when they’d cut away all his hair – Gwen had cried watching, as if they were cutting all ofherhair, not that it really mattered compared to everything else – his head had looked oddly swollen, and the expression on the physician’s face hadn’t given Gwen much hope.

‘No,’ Gwen said. ‘They didn’t say anything.’ And then she burst into tears.

She didn’t see Agnes leave the room, because she couldn’t really see anything – she felt Bridget’s hands on her though, tentatively smoothing her hair away from her face and stroking her back. Gwen reached for her, feeling foolish and lost and small, and found herself being hauled into Bridget’s arms properly so that she could cry there.

‘You need sleep,’ Bridget said eventually, when Gwen’s sobs had gone more the way of sniffles. ‘Bed.’

Gwen allowed herself to be steered into her bedroom and sat down on the end of her bed; she watched through blurry eyes as Bridget knelt to untie Gwen’s boots, easing them off, precise and careful. Gwen’s heart hurt, watching her; she leaned forward to kiss her, and Bridget caught her by the wrists, holding her steady.