Chapter 267: The Original Form (Part 1)
“No, Aidan. Go away,” Alison murmured, feeling as if fever were burning her alive.
Aidan said, “You should go. The children will worry.”
The word children tore through her; tears spilled down her cheeks.
“Alison, I don’t know what’s happened, but you have to look after yourself.” Aidan’s voice rose as he hauled her upright. “Come on — let’s go to the hospital.”
She tried to struggle free, but she was too weak.
“No — I won’t go!” she protested, but her protest dissolved into a whisper.
He insisted, and in the end she let him bundle her into the car. He assumed the fever must be a complication of the miscarriage and brought her straight to the obstetrics ward — the same room where she’d lain before.
She dozed fitfully, sleep braided with fevered dreams.
In those dreams Jack, in white, leapt into the sea — the image burrowed deep and would not leave her.
“Alison…” a voice called through the haze. The tang of antiseptic and the sharp sweetness of hospital air came into focus.
“Jack…” she breathed, and her eyelids fluttered.
“Jack!” she cried, hope rising — only to find herself staring at Aidan.
Aidan spun, every line of his face drawn taut.
Though her cry had stabbed him, he hid it. “Alison, you’re awake.”
She froze, the warmth of hope curdling into disappointment.
“Aidan—why are you here? Where’s Jack?” she whispered, voice small.
Consciousness steadied around her like a thin cloth.
“Jack’s tied up,” Aidan said lightly, as if that explained everything. “Isn’t it good I’m here?”
“Aidan — don’t mention him! He’s a bastard,” she spat, the words tasting of ash.
“All right. I won’t mention him,” he said, softer now. “You’ve broken the fever. Are you hungry?”
She shook her head, each movement exhausting.
“We brought porridge. Try a little,” he coaxed.
She refused again, silence her shield.
“The doctor says you must nourish yourself after a miscarriage. If you don’t, you could have lasting problems,” he warned.
Fine. If porridge dulls the ache in my chest, bring it. she thought, bitterness coiled beneath her skin.
“Alison — tell me what happened,” Aidan asked.
“Aidan, do you think people go to heaven when they die?”
Aidan hesitated, then answered gently, “Maybe.”
“All right. Bring the porridge.”
He moved closer. “Let me feed you.” Seeing the tremor in her hands, he hammered the gentleness into his voice.
“No. I can manage,” she insisted.
“Be good,” he urged. “You always fed me. Let me return the favor.” He lifted the spoon to her lips.
Rock. Emily. I will make you pay, she thought, the vow a cold ember in her chest.
When the bowl was empty, Aidan watched her face. “Alison — what’s wrong?”