Rhododendron

Stregoni woke with a jerk, disoriented, fumbling automatically for his spectacles even as he heard the noise which had woken him—a frantic banging upon the front door of the apothecary.

Someone was in trouble.

Shoving his spectacles on his nose, he threw back his blankets and slid naked from bed, shivering as he fumbled in the dark for his clothes. He'd just buttoned his breeches and pulled on a shirt when his bedroom door flew open.

His mother was in her sleeping gown, a night robe thrown hastily over it, the belt loosely tied. Her long curly hair glowed like embers in the light of the candle she held. "Stregoni."

"What is it?" he asked, taking note of the trembling, shadowy figure behind her. "I'm nearly dressed." He sat down in a nearby chair to pull on his stockings, then fumbled for his sturdiest boots and stamped into them.

"It's Louis, from Blackfield," his mother said, stepping back as Stregoni finally emerged.

Out in the hallway, closer to the light, he could see now it was indeed Louis. A footman for the Blackfield family now, his parents still lived only a few houses down from the apothecary. He was a few years older than Stregoni, but they had always got on growing up, when their paths crossed.

"What's wrong?" Stregoni asked, stifling a yawn. He had never been very good at waking up, despite the fact both his parents were bright, early risers.

"It's Tony," Louis said, and Stregoni could not tell if he was shaking from fear or cold—probably both. "He's taken a nasty turn, but Lord and Lady Blackfield won't summon anyone. They're too taken with that new 'expert' of hers from the city." His lip curled, despite the trembling.

"What expert?" Stregoni asked sharply, suddenly much more awake. "Lady Blackfield mentioned nothing to me about it; she did not even write to cancel my regular visits." A quack, if that curled lip was anything by which to judge.

He bit back a few expletives of his own. This would not be the first time he'd run across a damned quack and their so called miracle cures.

Striding down the hallway, he threw open the door which led to the front half of the building, given over entirely to the apothecary his family had owned and operated for three generations now. Stregoni often felt guilty there would likely be no fourth generation.

He could not, in good conscience, attempt to love and lie with a woman when he was so stupidly—

Cutting off the distracting thoughts, he moved quickly to gather all that he would need for an impromptu journey to the Blackfield Estate. Normally, he would not be due to make a trip there until early next week. He had only returned a few days ago from his stay with Carmilla.

Thoughts of Carmilla invariably led to thoughts of Gilles and François, and so Stregoni shoved them ruthlessly away once more. He would not be distracted when he was needed.

He frowned as he picked up a tin and discovered it was empty. "Mother, do we have any more chamomile?"

"Yes, dear," his mother said in her gentle way. No matter how crazy things might get—and in their occupation, life was seldom anything but—her voice was always calm. Even his father's death she had taken quietly and calmly, though he suspected she had not been that way once her bedroom door was closed.

She rifled through an assortment of cases and tins, then came back with his refilled, kissing his cheek briefly. Turning away, she took up a few more bottles and tins and boxes, tucking them neatly into his bag. "Go quickly, but do not be too reckless. If you can, stay there until the snow clears. It has only gotten worse since we went to bed."

Reaching out, she combed through his hair, mouth pursed in worry. "You did not even fetch a collar," she said, clucking in gentle disapproval, but there was a faint smile in her voice that took any sting from the words. "Go on with you then, and be careful."

"Yes, Mother," Stregoni said, and kissed her cheek. "Louis, remain here until the snow clears." He held up a hand to forestall protest. "I can travel faster alone." Without another word, he strode to the entryway, snatched up his cloak, then headed outside and down to the public stable where he kept his horse.

It took only minutes to saddle his horse, though he did it with much yawning and fumbling and shivering.

Finally he led his horse outside, then mounted and took off as quickly as he dared down the street. The snow here, thankfully, had mostly been tamped down or brushed away.

Beyond the town, the going was much more difficult. The best Stregoni could do was urge his horse on while burrowing deep into his cloak, pulling a scarf up over most of his face. His spectacles he finally had to tuck away, though he hated not being able to see clearly—but they were so covered in snow, he couldn't see anyway.

Trusting the horse, knowing where and when to guide it, shivering in the biting, bitter cold, he pushed onward.

The going got much easier once they reached the cover of the forest. As they reached a fork in the road, he reluctantly guided the horse to the right, rather than the left.

It was dark, the hour indeterminable, though he suspected it was some wretched hour of the early morning. With the snow and the dark, the screaming quiet brought by both, he felt as though he traveled through a dream.

He wanted nothing more than to take the left path, stumble into the kitchen of the Sangre mansion, find a cup of tea and a good breakfast, maybe find Aubrey or Carmilla to talk for a time.

Instead, he pushed on toward Blackfield, hoping that all he had before him was a simple argument, a quack who would be easily routed.

What was probably only an hour, but felt like a day, later he at last saw the dark stone blur that was Blackfield Manor. The long drive was lined with the blackthorn bushes that gave the manor its name, and more of the same were clustered around the house itself. Come spring, they would burst with green leaves and white flowers, but right now they were nothing but dark, twisting, barren branches.

More falling from his horse than dismounting, he pulled out his spectacles and settled them in place. Hastening into the stable, he was grateful to see a stable hand was awake—likely wakened by Louis and told to await his arrival. Handing over his horse, he took his bag and strode quickly back to the house, eschewing the front door to slip around to take the servant entrance.

Despite the early hour, the kitchen was bright and warm and bustling. Stregoni gratefully abandoned the feeling of living in a waking nightmare and slid back into the world of the waking. He smiled at the cook and the head footman as he slipped into the room looking more asleep than awake—though he woke up sharp enough when he spied Stregoni. "Doctor!"

"Louis sent me," Stregoni explained. "How is Tony?"

"Not well," the head footman said. "I had wondered where Louis got to when I did not see him up and doing his morning chores. I was just going now to toss him out of bed. Master Tony is asleep from sheer exhaustion. That new doctor is killing the poor boy more than saving him."

Stregoni nodded. "May I see him?"

"I will try," the head footman replied. "Lord and Lady Blackfield are determined their new doctor will save the boy, and are not tolerating any protests to the contrary." He motioned, straightening his clothes as he turned to lead Stregoni from the kitchen.

"Come back here when you're done, dear," said the cook with a warm smile. "You look in sore need of a cup of tea."

"That would be lovely," Stregoni said as he departed. They made their way upstairs quickly, spilling off the servant entrance to the second floor and striding briskly down the hallway to a room near the master bedroom.

He started to open the door when it abruptly swung open from the inside, and he was brought face to face with a man who might have been handsome, save for the oily demeanor about him. His hair had a wet, shiny look, short and cut close to his head. There was a gleam to his eye, a cruel set to his mouth, that Stregoni had seen more times than he liked to count.

That expression was always there, in men who made money by banking on the desperation and pain of others.

"Who are you?" the quack demanded peremptorily. "You don't look like a delivery boy."

Stregoni glared. "I am Stregoni Benefici, the family physician. Who, sir, are you?"

"William," the man said, his fingers going to touch the costly-looking jeweled yellow lily nestled in the over-abundance of lace at his throat.

It reminded Stregoni abruptly that he had forgotten his own stock in his haste, and given that haste—he must look quite the mess. What should it matter, though? Ignoring the looks the man was giving him, he shoved the fool hard, then strode past him and deeper into the room.

Tony, only eight years old, was fast asleep. He was nearly buried in piles of blankets, braced against a great many pillows. He was red and sweating, obviously suffering a fever. Stregoni set down his bag and stripped to his shirt, rolling the sleeves up to keep them well out of his way.

Then he set to work stripping aside blankets, at last finding the small body buried beneath them all, the poor thing soaked with sweat and reeking of some foul concoction. Frowning, he gingerly began to remove the ruined clothes.

"Bring me warm water, a cloth, and soap," he ordered, not bothering to look up to see who would do as he said, attention only for Tony. "What in the hell did you give him?" he asked, grimacing at the substance smeared all over Tony's torso.

William appeared like a snake at his side. "A healing ointment, too complex for you to understand."

Stregoni ignored him and instead brought his fingers to his nose, smelling the substance. "Some of these are toxic!" he bellowed. "If ingested they could cause harm, and I wouldn't be surprised if they give him some sort of rash!"

Rising to his feet, he grabbed William by the lapels of his expensive velvet jacket and shook him hard. "You are a quack and I will see you taken up by the authorities if you do not vacate these premises—"

"Benefici!"

He let go, but only reluctantly, as Lord Blackfield strode into the room, his face a thundercloud.

"My lord—"

"What is the meaning of this?" Blackfield demanded. "I did not summon you. Who sent you? I will see him turned out."

Stregoni ignored the question. "I was informed a quack was taking advantage of you and stood to harm Tony. I came at once—and I see my informant was correct."

"You overstep yourself," Blackfield said coldly. "Doctor William comes highly recommended from a dear friend, and I do not appreciate your tone, nor your implication that I would be so easily taken in by a quack."

"I am the family physician," Stregoni said stubbornly. "I swore to look to the health of this family, and I am doing so, whether you approve of my methods or not. Your son is sick. It is not the sort of illness from which he will ever completely recover. My father knew this disease, as did his father. I am ever watchful for new discoveries where it is concerned, but I tell you right now, there is no cure. That substance smeared on his chest is likely making his fever worse. This man will kill your son."

William stepped forward. "I do not like to presume, but you hardly look like a man whose medical word can be trusted."

"I was more concerned with the health of the child than my own appearance," Stregoni bellowed, shaking with fury and humiliation that these people he had served so long would cast him aside as though he were a useless incompetent. "A doctor who can afford to dress himself in velvet and jewels is more concerned with his money than his patients. If my father were here, he would say the same."

"You overstep yourself," Blackfield said.

"You are a fool," Stregoni replied.

He grunted in pain, reeling back, as Blackfield backhanded him.

His spectacles went flying, but Stregoni did not yet go to retrieve them. "If that is how you feel, then I can only say I am sorry for the boy. He does not deserve to suffer like this because you will not listen to me. I have always served you faithfully and reliably."

"My son is still sick, and he grows worse. Doctor William has done better than you."

Stregoni ignored his throbbing cheek, the blood he could feel dripping from his split bottom lip. "He has not, but you are welcome to think as you like. That man," he hissed, pointing at William, "is a charlatan, and I only hope you see reason before you have cause to regret it."

"I think it would be best if you left," Blackfield said.

"Please," Stregoni said, "allow me to finish tending the boy. He needs to be bathed, given tea and broth."

William's hand fell heavy on his shoulder.

Stregoni's temper snapped, and he shoved hard. "Do not touch me," he said.

William lunged, fist flying.

He went down hard from the punch, not having expected such a level of violence, his entire face throbbing now.

"You have upset this family enough," William said. "Leave before I make you."

"Fine," Stregoni said, and retrieved his jacket and cloak, his bag and spectacles, still ignoring his now badly bleeding lip as he stormed from the room.

It was beyond comprehension, though sadly he had seen it before. Still—how many years had he helped this family? He had done so much, had tended Tony from the very beginning. His mother had attended the birth, and the family's medical history was well documented in one his father's numerous books, as well as his own.

Dismissed like a low, incompetent servant, treated like a mongrel by a velvet-skinned snake.

"Doctor Benefici!" the cook exclaimed. "Oh, my word—I will kill that quack myself, I vow it."

He smiled faintly, wincing as the motion pulled at his lip. It would need dressing before he dared go out in the snow again. "If you are still willing, I would appreciate that cup of tea."

The cook nodded and bustled about the kitchen getting it. Stregoni set his bag down and rifled through it, coming up with a tincture that he daubed on a bit of cloth brought to him by one of the kitchen maids. Lip cleaned, he dipped the cloth in a bowl of water and quickly washed the rest of his face.

"How bad does it look?" he asked, striving for levity, as the cook set down a cup of tea and a plate of food.

The cook refused to find it amusing. She scowled in disapproval. "I've half a mind to go up there and show that little weasel what my fists can do. Let's see him find a cure for that!" She nudged the plate forward. "Eat it all. You'll need your strength. I'm sorry you came out here only to be treated so horribly, and you always so good to us." Shaking her head, muttering further disapproval, she moved about the kitchen to finish preparing breakfast.

Several minutes later, the head footman reappeared, face troubled. "Doctor, you might want to be leaving shortly. His Lordship doesn't trust that you have left, despite repeated assurances."

"I was just on my way out," Stregoni replied, finishing the last of his tea before shrugging into his jacket, then swinging his cloak up over his shoulders.

Bidding them all a farewell, he swiftly made his way outside and to the stables, where his horse awaited him. Ignoring further apologies from the stable hand, he mounted and rode off.

Despite the tincture, his lip still throbbed.

He removed his spectacles once more as the snow proved too much for them, tucking them away and closing his eyes, wishing desperately for his bed—wishing more that he was still tending Tony, sick at heart at the idea the boy might die because his parents were fools. Desperate, scared, but fools all the same.

"Home," he muttered, thankful his horse knew the way, praying they would get there swiftly and safely.

Though he tried to stay awake, pain and tiredness combined to get the better of him, and he found himself jerking awake often, the world a blur of gray and white and black all around him, the forest blending into the snow, the dark gray of the morning sky, and Stregoni realized he had no idea how long they had been traveling.

He drifted again, unable to focus for long, and wondered if perhaps the cold was getting to him more than he realized. Sometime later, his horse abruptly stopped, nickering in the quiet morning.

They were not in town, Stregoni saw immediately. By this time, the town would be noisier, and if nothing else, he would smell it. Right now, he could smell nothing, though perhaps that was simply because his nose was frozen.

Falling from the horse, he struggled to his feet and brushed snow from his clothes, then fumbled for his spectacles.

He stared as he got them on and realized where he was.

What in the hells was he doing here?

"Horse!" he snapped. "You don't even know this place! No one knows this place. How did we get here?" He paused to draw a breath, but before he could start issuing threats in earnest, the door behind him opened.

"What in the hell are you doing here, Carrot?"

Gilles's voice struck him like a whip, and Stregoni flinched, turning around slowly. "I don't know—" He began, but even as he spoke, Gilles was plunging down the stairs.

He was grabbed roughly by the shoulders, and shaken hard. "What do you think you're doing?" Gilles demanded, voice full of fury. "You have no business being here!"

Stregoni was getting sick of being mistreated, and he most definitely was not in the mood to struggle with Gilles. Even half asleep and in pain, he could not help but notice how wonderful the bastard looked, how fine he smelled.

His eyes stung, his whole body ached with a need to simply be held, to be told everything was all right, or would be—and Gilles never would do such a thing, and it was stupid of him even to think about it.

"Unhand me!" Stregoni snapped. "My horse came here. I've no idea why."

Gilles narrowed his eyes.

"It's the truth," Stregoni said, yanking down his scarf to be heard more clearly. "I have no desire to—"

"What in the hell!" Gilles roared, but before Stregoni could speak, his arm was taken roughly and he was all but dragged up the stairs and into the house, then more or less thrown into a small parlor. "Stay there," Gilles hissed. "Do not speak, do not leave this room, do not make so much as a peep. Do you understand me?"

Too confused and tired to figure out what was going on, or how to protest, Stregoni simply stood numbly as the door was pulled shut—and locked.

Finding the nearest seat, some worn and faded green thing that had not been cleaned in a long time, Stregoni dropped down into it and fell asleep almost immediately.

He was jerked awake by a familiar touch, and blinked blearily at Gilles, whose expression was unreadable.

"Come on," Gilles said tersely. "We are returning to Sangre Manor. If you say a single word before we are away, I will throttle you."

"Go ahead," Stregoni said irritably. "It would be an improvement upon the day."

Gilles said nothing, though Stregoni caught a derisive snort. He started to make a sharp retort but simply could not muster the energy.

Instead he went meekly along as Gilles dragged him back outside, and then into a carriage. It was old, and smelled of dust and disuse, but seemed sound enough. "What—"

"We can hardly ride back, the state you are in," Gilles said, voice flat, as though Stregoni was the greatest annoyance in his life.

Stregoni recoiled, hating the lump in his throat, fisting his hands to still their trembling. He was tired, that was all. Tired often led to stupid, and he knew better than to let Gilles get to him. "I am sorry to be a burden upon you," he said stiffly, wishing he could sound colder, as uncaring as Gilles. "I do not know why my horse brought me to your father's house."

"The horse is much like the master, I guess," Gilles said.

He flinched again, and did not try to sort out what precisely that meant—that he was stupid, likely.

"Who hit you, Carrot?"

"None of your business," Stregoni replied. He closed his eyes and willed himself to ignore Gilles, ignore everything, but he could no more ignore Gilles than he could stop breathing.

Through the smell of neglect that permeated the carriage, he could smell Gilles. His cologne was as sumptuous and fine as always, aspen and Carolina rose, mixing with the heady, musky scent that was all Gilles.

He wanted to lean in close, find solace, but finding solace in Gilles was like expecting warmth from snow.

Stregoni jerked as a hand grasped his chin, the supple leather of Gilles's gloves warm against his skin, though the grip itself was hard enough to bite.

His eyes widened as Gilles took his mouth, lip splitting anew as he took no care with the kiss—if the furious and bruising press upon his mouth could be called a kiss. He struggled to get away, but trapped by Gilles and the carriage, he was helpless to do anything but go along with it, until Gilles at last pulled away just enough he could breathe.

"Who struck you?" Gilles demanded.

"Why?" Stregoni demanded. "Going to applaud him?"

"Tell me," Gilles hissed.

Stregoni remained silent, reaching up with one shaking hand to wipe the blood from his lip, torn between relief and fury that he could not see Gilles clearly in the dark confines of the carriage.

The carriage took that moment to hit a rough patch, tossing him about, until he landed awkwardly half on Gilles, half still on the carriage seat.

"You like rough treatment, Carrot?" Gilles said, voice cold and mocking. "You certainly seem to be seeking it this morning."

"Yes," Stregoni snapped. "I like pain. I told Blackfield to strike me and William to punch me, and then sought you out to be mocked and treated like a harlot. Go to the devil!" He reached for the carriage door, more than content to throw himself out of it and walk, but was only yanked back for his effort and pinned in place.

"Blackfield, eh?" Something like cold satisfaction laced Gilles's voice.

Stregoni wondered why the hell it mattered, but could not muster the energy or the will to ask, and secretly some part of him did not want to know because the reason wouldn't be the one he wanted.

Gilles said nothing further, and for all they sat close enough their legs just touched, they may as well have been miles apart.

He struggled to hang on to his anger, wishing he were brave enough to lash out, to demand things from Gilles he would never get, but pain and exhaustion swiftly beat out the emotions that were simply too tiring to maintain. He was asleep almost before he realized it, head lolling to rest against the nearest hard surface, which smelled of aspen and Carolina roses, and warmer by far than anything he'd encountered since being dragged from bed in the dark of the morning.