In Which Searle Lessens the Worry

April 2, 1181

"Why did you tell me you were sick?"

Searle had been out the front door the minute Jadin had told him. He'd even taken Lettie's mare because she was the faster horse, leaving the grooms with hurried instruction that Lettie was welcome to ride his if need be. He'd taken the time to leave her in the stables only because he'd borrowed her, then he'd dashed inside, not slowing down for Florian or any of the servants or even Thallie's cat. He hoped the trip had hurt him more than it had the poor animal, but the cat was not his concern.

As Sparron's father surveyed Searle from the bedside chair, Sparron pulled the covers over his head and turned over. "I'm going to kill Jadin."

"Now, now. Don't get too upset. You still need your rest." The baron rubbed Sparron on the shoulder, then pushed back his chair and glanced over at Searle again. Searle wished he'd just leave. He had a hundred things to say, ninety of which couldn't be said in front of Sparron's father, not unless he wanted to join Jadin on Sparron's metaphorical hit list. "Searle, please try to calm yourself."

"But--"

"Searle, I don't know how much your brother told you or even knows, but Sparron had a particularly taxing episode a few days back, with a few hallucinations reoccurring as recently as yesterday. His senses are still overwhelmed and the last thing he needs is any excitement."

"But--"

"Please, Searle," Sparron muttered in addendum. "I'm tired."

Searle forced his cringing arms to his sides and strained to straighten his posture. No, he didn't want to upset Sparron--not when he was resting, not when he was hurting, not when his father was in the room. He tried to do as he was told, or at least as he thought he was being told. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right." Sparron's form shifted beneath the covers, the rustle of blankets never so like the gnashing teeth of dragons. "You didn't know."

He hadn't. But he did now.

And shame on him for not knowing sooner. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Searle..." The baron's warning was soft, though it was enough to keep him from digging any further. It was for the best, Searle would admit, that he calmed down. However well or poorly Sparron was recovering--Searle couldn't guess either way--he wasn't going to help. He'd probably answered his own question.

But Sparron answered it anyway. "You have enough to worry about."

But he didn't. His life was perfect in comparison. Who knew how long Sparron's had been a living hell. "But so do you."

He watched the folds of the blanket as Sparron pulled his knees to his chest. The ocean in a tempest would have yielded gentler waves. "Go home, Searle."

"But--"

"Searle."

The baron rose from his seat. He wasn't a tall man--not short, though shorter than Searle--but still Searle was in that moment a child, about to be scolded for some impish behavior that had gone on past the point of youthful hi-jinx.

Or about to be forbidden said hi-jinx.

"Searle, I know you mean well, but you... you're very excitable. And I don't think you intend it, but you tend to get Sparron riled up."

Searle swallowed. Yes, this was it. He was about to be banned from visiting Sparron. Maybe Sparron had been right all these years. Maybe he did know. "Sorry, sir."

"Don't apologize. You did nothing wrong and you've been a good friend to Sparron, but I think it would be best if you didn't call on him when he's not feeling well." Was that a condition? Or did Sparron never feel well? "I'll send Florian with a message when Sparron's feeling like himself again, but until then, I think it would be best if you kept your distance. Do you understand?"

So it was a condition. Searle could do conditions. He didn't like them, conditional visits were better than no visits at all. "Yes, sir."

"Good." The baron sighed. That was another man who'd been to hell and back in recent years, with the deaths of his wife and his middle daughter, his eldest daughter's rotten marriage, having to raise his granddaughter, everything. And now Sparron too. If there was no outright ban, Searle would keep his distance for the baron's sake as well. No one could handle that much worry. "I'm sorry, Searle. This is just how it has to be."

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