Page 44 of Leafpoint Lighthouse

Lyra

William avoided me, which was best for now. His lack of consideration earlier hadn’t impressed me, especially when he’d come to my defence. I couldn’t decide if this was William’s version of mind games or if he was confused himself. As usual, I cooked enough dinner for both of us and left his out. William had become very handy in the kitchen.

As I curled up in bed that night, I drifted off into a broken dreamland filled with confusion and alarming images. I woke several hours later, shivering violently. The window in my room was open, and my duvet had been pulled off.

“That’s wrong, William, you don’t mess with someone’s health,” I chided and shut the window, pulling the covers back up.

William didn’t answer, not that I’d expected him to, and he did it twice more during the night. Each time William ignored my chastisement. In the end, I wrapped the quilt around me and hoped that would stop him. As I drifted off, I heard a sea shanty being sung.

William

My plan for this morning was foiled as I overheard Lyra coughing terribly. Entering a lady’s bedroom without permission was something I’d been brought up to avoid. Lyra coughed again, and it sounded awful. Concern overruled protocol, and I pushed her door open, ready to duck out if need be.

Lyra lay on her back, one blanket twisted around her and the rest on the floor. Sweat dripped from her forehead as she rested lifelessly in the bed. Instantly, I guessed Lyra had a fever. That silly girl, why had she opened her window and kicked the blankets off? I settled her in bed, dragged the covers back up, and headed down to the kitchen.

I opened the cupboards until I found some cans labelled “soup”. Unsure how to get into it, I stabbed a sharp knife into the lid, yanked it open and warmed it on the stove. I’d watched Lyra use it the other day, and I turned the knob. While that heated, I grabbed drinks. Lyra needed hydration and nourishment. Without either, she’d grow weaker, which meant more strangers might come.

Balancing everything, I headed upstairs and, for the second time, discovered the window open and the covers on the floor. What the hell? I shut it again, tucked Lyra up, and then realised my predicament. How did I feed her? Rather awkwardly, I kicked my boots off and sat on the bed. I propped Lyra up and leaned her against me as I managed to grab the soup.

Carefully, I spooned the liquid into Lyra’s mouth and watched her swallow. With extreme patience, I fed her from the bowl and then helped her drink the warm tea. After that, I wrapped her back up. Now I faced a difficult predicament. Lyra needed clean pyjamas and a bath to cool her down. Her temperature was sky-high, and her body was too hot to touch.

Gritting my teeth, I ran the tepid water and then, praying Lyra wore underwear, I stripped her down. A hiss of relief left me as I spotted what ladies now called a bra and knickers. Without a second thought, I scooped her up and placed her in the tepid bath. Lyra had several bottles of shampoo and liquid soap, and I washed her body and hair.

“Conditioner,” Lyra muttered, looking at me with dazed eyes. They closed, and she shivered again. I checked her temperature and found it was falling. I grabbed one of the fluffy towels Lyra favoured and carried her back to the bed. Now came the hard part: getting her redressed.

I wasn’t a prude; I’d seen women naked before, but this felt wrong. Lyra was helpless, and I wished to avoid being labelled a deviant. But she couldn’t stay in wet underwear.

“Lyra, I want you to undress and put fresh clothes on.” I nudged her a little.

Lyra didn’t respond, and I repeated my actions until she opened her eyes, which welled with sadness. “What?” She croaked and winced.

“You’re ill. Lyra, please, I need you to get out of your damp clothing and change into dry clothes,” I insisted.

Lyra’s eyes rolled up, but I shook her again. Tears trickled down Lyra’s cheeks, but fifteen minutes later, I was tucking her back into bed. I headed to Lyra’s bathroom cupboard and rummaged through it. I found a box called painkillers, took two out and woke Lyra up enough to swallow them. Hopefully, they helped.

For the next couple of days I looked after Lyra, sponging her hot body down and forcing her to change sweat-soaked clothes. On the third morning Lyra’s fever broke, and I sighed in relief. Even though I didn’t want her here, I certainly didn’t wish for her to get ill. I had to question her mindset—what person opens a window in the cold air of March? Had the visit from her ex-boyfriend—still a stupid thing to call a grown man—tipped Lyra over the edge?

I needed to check supplies today, so I left her alone for a couple of hours. When I returned, Lyra had got up, bathed, and changed her clothes.

“I’m as weak as a kitten,” she complained.

“You’ve been very ill.”

“That wouldn’t have happened if you’d not kept opening the windows on me,” Lyra weakly accused.

“I didn’t do any such thing!” I exclaimed, unamused. How dare Lyra accuse me of such a heinous act? Especially when I just spent the last few days caring for her.

“Whatever,” Lyra murmured and closed her eyes. Within minutes she was asleep again. I headed into the kitchen to cook a casserole. Despite her cruel accusation, she needed nourishment, and I would not be accused of neglecting a poorly person.

Lyra

I dreamed a dream the other night.

Lowlands, Lowlands, away, my John

I dreamed a dream the other night.

My Lowlands, away my John.