The next day, she walked in with breakfast to see Mark looking like hell but awake.

"Mark, how are you feeling?" Darting to the bed, it felt so good to see him awake even though he was still so hot.

His eyes were squinted in pain.

She frowned. "His breathing is clearer. What hurts, love?"

"His neck is still paining him. I had to pull the curtains because light bothered his eyes. He still doesn't make too much sense, but he'll say a word here and there," Grandfather said.

A glance up at Grandfather revealed a sheepish look.

"I wasn't sure that you'd agree. He was having a very difficult time breathing when he woke up a bit ago. I was able to suction out some of the infection. I'm afraid it wasn't pleasant for poor Mark, but it got the job done."

"What?! That was a contraption I built on theory, not to be tested on someone!" Setting a hand on Mark's thin body only made the protective instincts stronger.

"There now, my girl. It worked and he's doing much better."

"I can't believe you! I leave you alone for one hour while I bathe and dress, and you are experimenting!" Shoving to her feet, she gave him one last glare. "You, Grandfather, know better. Even if Mark was coherent enough to consent, you do not listen to him!"

Grandfather simply rocked back his chair. "A contraption that I'm quite certain literally saved your husband from drowning in his own infection. He's awake for the first time in days, Tanya. Perhaps it wasn't the fever keeping him under but a lack of oxygen." He stood and looked down at her. "If you quit medical university, I shall have to take you over my knee, a grown woman or not. You are a genius. Now, figure out how to get your husband well. I'm going to take a nap."

She sank into the chair with a bowl of chicken soup for Mark and very carefully propped him up to give soup.

A soft gasp of pain and he closed his eyes.

"Does your head still hurt?"

"Yes," he breathed and slowly opened his eyes.

"Let's get a bit of soup in your belly, and then I'll get you tree bark. You're still so hot."

"I thought it was brain fever," he whispered.

Perhaps a lowered voice would help ease his headache. "You seem better today. You weren't ill enough for brain fever. Perhaps it was just pneumonia that is starting to reverse."

"You haven't attended since my surgery, have you?" he asked quietly, his voice raspy but most of the breathlessness gone. "If you miss a week, it's automatic expulsion."

"I made a choice to take care of my family, and I don't regret it." Swallowing hard, she gave him another spoonful without meeting his eyes. "You just worry about resting. I'm worried how long you can tolerate being this hot." She swapped out the rag on his head for a cooler one.

"I wouldn't have wanted you to give it up for me," he whispered with tears in his eyes.

Finally meeting his eyes, she set a hand on his chest. "I did it for our family. No one would want an Injun physician anyways," she breathed as he blurred behind tears. "Other physicians hold theory sessions, and I was getting kicked out daily. I wasn't good enough, and I'm alright with that."

His lips pressed together in a line as he held back tears. "Did they hold theory sessions before I started them?"

She looked away. None, and when they adopted it, she was always the first one asked impossible questions.

"How many other students would be kicked out?" he whispered, but his eyes said he already knew the answer.

Staring at the floor was easier than admitting no one else ever was dismissed from class. It was a means to get an Injun out of university.

His hand dragged across the bed and rested over hers on his chest. A tear slid from the corner of his eye, his body too weak for more emotion than that. "I'm so sorry. I wish I could redo that day. You can earn a license training with a physician. It'll just take longer. We'll find someone who is good and patient—"

"Someone who isn't you, you mean." The tears spilled over.

"I cost you this. It would be cruel to make you train with me," he whispered.

Her eyes dropped to the bowl as another tear fell. "Because you're ashamed of me?"

"Because I'm ashamed of me," he breathed.

Her gaze flew to him.

"I love working with you." Another tear crept down his cheek. "Whomever trains you gets to be the hero in your eyes rescuing your dreams. That's not me." Another silent tear carried all the guilt and anguish that a body could possibly hold, even one as weak as his. "I don't deserve that, and you shouldn't want it from me either after what I did."

"You didn't know."

"But I should've thought about it. The monster doesn't get to turn around and be the hero," he whispered.

He remained silent the rest of the day, barely conscious but not once asking her for help. It was clearly out of shame.

"She would forgive you anything if you didn't mean harm," Grandfather said quietly that night.

Inching closer to the bedchamber doorway, she hesitated.

"She forgives my gravest sins. This time she needs me to not let her," he said so weakly. "I ruined her dreams. I should have to watch her bloom under someone else's hand."

"You're being dramatic like a hysterical woman is what you're being," Grandfather drawled.

"If it was Lily, you'd let her train under you?"

"I wouldn't have done such a thing to her at university in the first place, but yes, I'd spend years groveling and let her make her own choice. That's the problem here—you keep making her choices. She didn't care if she got a reputation for passing because you're her husband, but you went ahead and decided she should care. You don't think she should work under you, so you're not giving her a choice in the matter. For being such a forward-thinking man in the area of equality, you certainly are being sexist."

She blinked. Grandfather didn't often take anyone to task so.

Mark was silent. "Because I failed her in a way that's unforgivable," he breathed. "I promised to never—"

"To never, what? Be human? Make a mistake? A good marriage is making mistakes but learning from them and becoming a better person from them. You apologized and admitted you were wrong. Now it's time to let her respond to that. Frankly, I think it'd serve you right if she kicked you out of the house for a few days, but she loves you and I think realizes you were an inconsiderate bastard who didn't think your actions through. What she needs is you to be there supporting her right now, not pawning her off—"

"I'm not pawning her off—" Mark fell into a coughing fit that Grandfather helped calm.

"From her viewpoint, she like is thinking you're pawning her off. If you're the monster here, you led the charge in getting her kicked out of university and now are tossing her off onto another physician for training. Why? And why did she ask you if you're ashamed?"

Silence.

"I heard her. Frankly, from where she stands, that's the only thing that makes sense to her. She's worked with you for years and you're suddenly shoving her off. Your saving grace would be to train her yourself and work your ass off making sure she gets everything she needs to reach her dream." Grandfather looked over and his eyes widened. "Tanya."

The bedsheets rustled. "Tanya?"

Taking a step into the doorway, she swallowed hard.

Mark looked more exhausted than earlier, his eyes less clear. His hand dragged across the bed toward her. "Tanya, I'm sorry."

Avoiding Mark's eyes, she turned to Grandfather. "He needs to rest, not be bothered with trivial things."

"They're important things," Mark breathed.

Grandfather slipped out.

"I'll ask you one question, and then you must rest: do I shame you?" The words came out so small.

"You never have," he whispered. "Why would you ask that?"

"You know I'm afraid of men and I like working with you. Do you not want me to be a surgeon?"

"I don't think it's fair to expect you'd want me to train you." He tried to sit up, but whimpered and grabbed his head.

She stepped forward and eased his shoulders back. "You need to rest. We can talk later." She pulled up the sheets and tucked him in.

He caught her hand. "I'm sorry. For what I did that day and for somehow opening the door for the witch hunt. I love you. There's another university. I'll help you apply, if you want—"

"Why? For more segregation and slurs? Mark, you didn't start anything that wasn't already breeding. I made it three months, and that's enough."

"Tanya." Tears shimmered in his eyes.

"It has to be." A tear crept down her cheek. "It's alright, Mark." She stood and pressed a kiss to his brow. "You need to sleep." She slipped her hand free.

"I hurt you, and you should let me see it."

Stopping in the doorway and resting a hand on the doorframe, she bowed her head. It hurt too much to look at him and it was too hard to fight back the tears anymore. "I know you didn't mean for any of this to happen. But what you did that day hurt not because my answer wasn't actually wrong, but you looked at me with such distain. That part wasn't a show, Mark. Whether you realize it or not, there's some part of you that hates something in me."

"No—"

Her head whipped to him. "Don't lie to me!" Slamming a hand against the doorframe helped to control the hurt and anger. "I'm so sick of hearing your denials but knowing it's not truth." Her face crumpled.

"It's not what you think," he begged.

"Then what? God, tell me what!" She dropped to her knees beside the bed so he wouldn't get up. "When we wed, you made it abundantly clear that you married beneath you. That does not just go away!"

"I didn't even know your heritage!" he cried.

"Then what?! That I'm used?! That you're the father of another man's child?! What?! Tell me what!"

"That maybe I am ashamed!" A soft sob escaped him as he looked away.

The shock of hearing the words kept her feet anchored.

His chest heaved as he fought a coughing fit, but he still wouldn't look when it passed. "Charles asked for his school project what his nationality was." His voice warbled. "I told him English and Spanish," he whispered. "The thought of him being tormented and called names like you... Della looks like you, and I'm terrified of the life she'll have."

Those blue eyes finally turned to her, with tears cursing down his cheeks. "I don't want more children because I'm scared if it's even safe for you, but I'm also afraid if the babe will have characteristics that will become a target for hatred." Tortured, dull eyes looked back at her. "Maybe it means I'm ashamed of you."

Dropping back onto her haunches, it took a moment for it to sink in.

Leaning forward, she captured his hand in his lap. "Don't tell the children that I'm a halfbreed until—"

He looked up at the ceiling as if the words caused pain. "Stop," he whispered, "you don't deserve these names but insist on using them. I hate it, and you know it."

Fingering his wedding ring, she stared at his hand in hers. "Sometimes I do it to try to get a reaction because maybe it'd push this confession from you." Looking up, she held his red-rimmed eyes. "Being scared doesn't mean you're ashamed. I worry about the children too, particularly Della's appearance. I agree that we shouldn't tell the children about my heritage until they're old enough to understand the ramifications of that knowledge being shared. I've been sensing more and more hesitation from you since Della's birth, and I've been worried that you wish she looked more like you."

"She's beautiful, but I worry if she'll have trouble if she grows up to strongly resemble you. When the soldiers attacked... I thought it was bad enough trying to protect you from things because you're a woman, but..." his voice dropped to a whimper as his face crumpled, "I watched you be almost cut up like a pig."

A knee-jerk reaction was to drop his hand. That wasn't something Mark would say.

He began to sob. "The one day I treated you no differently than any other student, it had ramifications. I don't know how much to hide you and the children." His shoulders shook.

That was like a slap in the face, something that Mark would never even think. An eery feeling settled in, as if watching madness creep over him.

"Mark, you're ill and still feverish." She eased him back to lie down. "I think we need to talk when you feel better, but everything's okay." She wiped his brow with a cool rag.

"No!" He snatched her hand up.

"Shhhh. It's alright."

"Will you forgive me?" He clutched her hand, his eyes unfocused and wide. His grip almost hurt.

"Yes, hush now, husband." Trying to ease her hand free only made him hold tighter. "Mark, you're hurting my hand."

He immediately loosened his grip. "I won't hurt you. I won't let anyone hurt you." His dazed eyes looked up as he repeated the question. "Will you forgive me one day?" He sniffled and petted her hand, his behavior growing more odd with the fever.

"I forgave you. Will you eat some bread and soup for me? Then you must sleep."

Mark released her hand and accepted the spoonfuls, as if eager to please. But the entire time, he kept stroking her arm.

"Why do you keep touching my arm?"

"Makes less hurt neck fever head," he whispered, his eyes somewhat glazed.

That made no sense.

He guided her hand up to his head. "Brain," he whispered.

"Mark, I'm not sure what you're trying to tell me." Even though he spoke nonsense, a nagging feeling said he was trying to say something very important.

"Fever," he said and hit her hand against his head in frustration. "Fever, fever, head."

"I know, sweetheart. Here." She switched out the rag for a cool one. "I'll get you well."

He settled down and fell asleep.

When she brought the bowl out, Grandfather met her eyes. "I'm not sure how you had so much conversation with him."

Swallowing hard, she searched his face. "He was coherent long enough, but then he started rambling and acting strangely."

"Mistress, he seemed with it enough, just very repentant." Brigands frowned from his seat at the table. With a shake of her head, she sighed. "Mark would never say he wanted to hide me or the children. Even if he was ashamed of my heritage, he wouldn't try to hide us. His body grew hotter during that conversation, and his eyes lost their focus. He kept saying 'head' and hit my hand against his head. Brigands, he's in there enough for moments at a time that I think he's trying to tell us something."

A crash came from the room. "No! Nooo!" Mark screamed.

Dashing inside, Grandfather and Brigands tried to help untangle Mark from the sheets where he'd fallen out of bed.

"No! Noooo!" Mark swung and fought, his nightshirt and hair saturated with perspiration. "No more! No!"

Blood ran cold at hearing the terror in his voice. "Stop! Don't touch him. He's hallucinating."

Brigands and Grandfather backed away.

"My leg?! Where's my leg?!" He screamed and struggled to get up from the entanglement of blankets. Sobs wracked his weak body.

"Mark?"

He stilled and looked around, his gaze going right through her. "Anna? Go away," he gasped and stared at the far wall. "You're not real," he wept and tried to crawl backwards.

"No, Mark, she's not real. I'm right here, sweetheart." She inched closer, but Grandfather grabbed her arm to stay back.

Mark shook his head and grabbed it, as if battling with hallucinations and reality. "Tanya? Why'd you leave me here?" he sobbed.

"Leave you where, Mark?"

"In the dark," he whispered and clutched the sheets as he stared at the ground like a madman. "Don't let them shock again."

"Get out," she whispered to Grandfather and Brigands. "He's hallucinating of Bedlam, and male voices will only send him into a panic." She pushed them out the door. Then she turned. "Sweetheart, I haven't left you. Is it dark right now?" She eased down onto the floor near him.

He nodded and his lip quivered.

"Mark, you're very ill, and sometimes a high fever can cause blindness for a little while. I think you're hearing voices of the wardens and Anna, but they're not real." She scooted closer.

"No! I didn't kill you!" He screamed and grabbed his head.

"Mark, Anna isn't here. It's just you and me. We're in our bedchamber in America."

He shook his head and rocked. "You're not real. Why'd you leave me here?"

Tears burned for his imaginary fear. "I am real, sweetheart. Reach out your hand. I'm right here. We're on the floor in our bedchamber."

His hand trembled as he held it out. The moment he touched her hand, he startled and cowered away. "They're coming," he gasped in horror. "Don't let them—Tanya! No! No!" He fought off invisible men, completely terrified and alone in a nightmare only he could see.

Grandfather ran in with chloroform and managed to get it over Mark's face.

Mark's body began to slow and relax. Scrambling over to him, she cradled him in her lap. "I won't let anyone hurt you, Mark. It's nightmares. You're safe," she sniffled.

"Tanya?" he whispered, fighting the effects of the chloroform.

"I'm here. I'm staying right here, my Mark."

"Fever," he whispered. His eyes slowly closed.

"I gave him only enough to subdue him. In his weakened state, he's probably asleep." Grandfather and Brigands helped get Mark back into bed.

"Keep him cool. I'm going to go dig in medical journals. You don't just have a sudden one-hundred-eighty turnaround after seeming to get better. He keeps talking about a fever and his head."

"Perhaps he was trying to warn us that he was starting to see things," Brigands offered.

She shook her head. "No, he's trying to tell us what's going on." She hurried to the library and dumped every medical journal on the floor.

"Tanya!"

She startled with a journal in her lap reading by lamp light in the library.

"Tanya!" There was a lot of banging as Grandfather and Brigands yelled for help.

Shooting into the bedroom, it was like being shot in the chest with how hard her heart slammed. Mark's body twitched and jerked. A seizure.

Grandfather and Brigands held him down to keep from falling off the bed.

Grabbing his shoulders, it took every ounce of energy to turn him onto his side so he wouldn't choke.

Within seconds, he stilled, his chest heaving for air from the exertion.

"It's alright," she whispered and wiped his mouth as he stared straight ahead in a daze. Looking over her shoulder, she ordered, "Go to the professor's house and tell him everything that's happening. Tell him to bring whatever physicians he wants, but someone needs to figure out what's happening to Mark."


The professor and two colleagues had very solemn expressions when they finished examining Mark at daylight.

"Mrs. Johnson, I think you need to sit," the professor said.

She shook her head, and Brigands stepped forward to set a hand on her shoulder.

"It's brain fever—meningitis, I'm afraid. All of his symptoms point to it."

It was like a ton of bricks hitting so hard that she slammed down into the chair. "Oh god, that's what he was trying to tell me. He kept mentioning 'brain' and 'fever' and 'head,' but I didn't put it together. He seemed to be delirious when he was saying it."

"Mrs. Johnson, there is much about the brain that we don't know. Brain fever out here isn't common like in England. Of course you wouldn't suspect it. There are two other cases that presented at the same time with university students. He likely caught pneumonia, which weakened him enough for the brain fever to take over. You need to be ready for it that if he does survive, there are often mental disabilities associated."

Drawing a deep breath, the room spun. Brigands set a hand on her back. "I know what you speak of, but there are many cases that make a full recovery," she snapped.

"I'm afraid that the worse the symptoms, the worse the impact on the brain. He's experiencing vision loss, seizures, hallucinations, an incredibly high fever...Mrs. Johnson, he's very weak."

Shooting to her feet, she gave a nod. "So what do we do? And don't tell me to ride it out because I know very well how those medical cases turn out."

"Mrs. Johnson, it's very contagious. At an institution—"

"They'll tie him to a bed and let the fever do what it wants! If you don't have solutions, get out!"

"Tanya," Grandfather said quietly. "Thank you, doctors." He escorted them out.


More days passed and Mark slipped into a coma.


"Mistress?" Brigands said quietly one night and entered with a candle.

She blinked, having been staring out the window for so long that the sun must've set hours ago.

"Do you want me to summon the clergy?"

Shooting up from the chair, she began the routine exercises of moving Mark's limbs so he wouldn't get bedsores or muscle atrophy. "He doesn't need last rights."

"Yes, mistress," he said quietly and set down the lamp. He helped with exercises on Mark's other arm. "Shall I make more food for the feeding tube?"

Swallowing hard, she nodded. At least Mark wouldn't starve or dehydrate with the feeding tube.

"Such weight loss is to be expected. It doesn't mean doom."

Slowly lowering Mark's arm, she linked her fingers through his limp ones. "He hasn't woken up for five days," she whispered. "He's not hot anymore. It's not the fever keeping him under." A tear landed on his finger.

Brigands lowered Mark's other arm. "Mistress, he loves you and those babes more than anything in the world. I have to believe that he's in there fighting his way back to you. Whether he comes back to you the same way he left or not, he'll love you. It's alright to not be strong every moment."

The sobs burst out that had been pushed down for so long. Brigands gathered her in his arms.


"Mistress," Brigands' voice cut through the haze of crying herself to sleep. Someone shook her shoulder.

Lifting her head, she stared in dread.

Mark's eyes were open and unmoving.

Her heart stopped. No. Oh god, no.

But Mark slowly blinked.

"Mark?" Standing so fast that the chair fell over, she leaned over him and felt his brow. Blessedly cool.

His eyes slowly shifted.

"Sweetheart, can you say anything?" Now that the infection was gone came the time to find out the extent of the damage left in its wake.

"Master, can you see?" Brigands frowned and waved a hand right at Mark's eyes to test reflexes.

Mark blinked in reaction.

"He's exhausted. Let him be for a moment." Grandfather stood in the doorway.

A soft grunt came from Mark.

"What do you need, sweetheart?"

But his eyes slowly drifted shut and his breathing evened out in sleep.

"He's awake," Brigands grinned, but his smile faded as he looked at her.

"What if that's all he's capable of now?" Swallowing hard, she sank onto the edge of the bed.


"Tanya?" It was lazy, slow speech.

Sitting up in the chair in the dark, her fingers tightened in Mark's hand. "I'm right here."

"Tanya?"

The lamp turned all the way up offered better light.

Mark looked so weak as his eyes searched the room.

"I'm right here." She stroked his arm.

His head turned to her.

"You've been sick with brain fever. Do you want water?" She reached for the glass but stopped as his eyes grew wider. "What's wrong?"

"Are you whispering?" The words were slightly slurred.

She shook her head. Dread clenched deep inside.

"I can't hear you."