And luckily for the Prince, she feared him as much as she loved him.
Martha didn't like Colin from the beginning. It was hard enough going to work at Misselthwaite, being the eldest of the Sowerby clan and all, but when she found out the manor's dirty little secret, it was too much to bear. Colin Craven, the child who was never supposed to be born, was still alive.
He was ten years old now, and being tucked away in secret passageways, hidden from the outside world because of some unknown affliction that no doctor could name-the boy could not walk, could not rise from his bed. She, like her mother before her, had been called upon to be Mrs. Medlock's right hand man, but even after two years working at the manor, she had not once been called in to assist with Colin Craven, for which she was thankful.
He must have looked something awful, Martha though. A child who has never seen sunlight, who has never risen from his bed; how could that be just, be beautiful? Thinking of her younger brother Dickon, who spent his days wandering the moors of Yorkshire. He was a healthy boy, was he not? What made him so healthy was the fresh air and the exercise, her mother swore by it that Dickon had never once caught an illness. Maybe that was what Colin Craven needed, a little fresh air. Still, Martha wasn't going to be the one to suggest it.
Martha loved companionship-something that was rarely found at Misselthwaite-and when it was announced that Mary Lennox, the niece of the late Mistress Craven, was going to be living with them, she was ecstatic. Her hopes rose quickly, that maybe this girl would be the one to be her friend, the one who would bring life to this old place, which was so dreary and dark now that even Master Craven preferred not to stay for long.
Mary Lennox was was terribly disagreeable and terribly impolite, and Martha saw her hopes of having a friend shattered once more. Still, she pushed to break through the shell that surrounded the girl, only to find that she was not the only Sowerby child doing it. It was Dickon Mary chose to open up to in the end, and together they would do wonderful things, Martha knew that, for they were in love even if they couldn't see it yet. And once more, Martha found herself alone.
The time Mary found the passageway to his room was the first time Martha had ever been asked to assist with Colin, and she held her breath nervously as she donned a sterilized white mask and protective gloves. Colin Craven was just a child, how could he have something so horrible that their skin couldn't touch his, that they couldn't breath the same air?
But what Martha Sowerby found in the room was not a child.
Colin Craven was ten years old, and already had the affirmative of his father. You didn't have to hear him speak to know he was present, to know that he would demand something. He didn't look sick either; not even was his spine warped like Mister Craven's. He was pale, that was undeniable, but he had been blessed with his mother's healthy complexion, and he was loud enough with his words to know that he didn't have a sore throat.
"What's ailing you today, Mister Craven?" Dr. Craven said, rolling his eyes as he checked for Colin's heartbeat. "Your heart sounds perfectly healthy."
"I'm dying." He said simply, looking straight at Martha. Her eyes grew wide when she saw that he was indeed talking to her. "Slowly but surely, I'm told every time."
And she knew it was a kind of warning he was giving her, a look that brought her back down to earth because she was eighteen and he was ten and he was dying and she, who grew up in the healthy airs of the moors, should not be falling in love with a dying boy. Wasn't it sad, really, that the only companionship she wanted, was in the form of a sickly ten year old boy who could not move from his bed?