Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews! :D For the bathtub scene, I listened to Wherever You Will Go by The Calling. The swell after the intro fit the scene perfectly.


Mark slept slouched over the bed from his seat in a chair. He faced the other way, but his hand still held hers. It was hard to track the passage of time, but it seemed like it'd been two days since he'd said she could let go.

The past two days had been the worst yet.

For the first time in days, there was enough energy to look at Mark. It had to be a good sign.

Twitching her fingers in his shot him awake and upright immediately. Then he stared in shock at her. "Tanya?"

A weak smile found it's way.

He stared in disbelief. And then the poor man burst into sobs as he climbed onto the bed and scooped her into his arms.

"No! NO!" Grandmama's sob of grief came from a few infirmary beds away as she raced closer down the aisle.

Grandfather took off at a run behind her.

Grandmama ran a hand over her hair, tears racing down her face.

"No, s,she's better," Mark sobbed and released her enough for Grandmama to hug her limp body.

"Thank the Spirits," Grandfather wept and helped support her head. When Grandmama let go, he pressed a kiss to her brow and eased her back into Mark's arms again.

An older man ran over, with a broad smile. "By the saints, I think you've made it through the worst of it. Are you able to speak, my dear?"

Mark eased her back into bed and pulled his chair closer to hold her hand.

They seemed to wait with abated breath. How odd.

"Tired," breathed out through parched lips.

Mark cried out in triumph and then scrambled to grab supplies off the nightstand. "Water! Someone get a glass of water for her!" He injected water and food into a feeding tube. "Does your throat hurt?"

Everything ached from disuse. It was too exhausting to stay awake. Her eyelids drifted shut.

A smile on his lips seemed so out of place with his red, tearstained eyes. He pressed a kiss to her brow. "Rest, sweetheart. We'll be right here. Someone bring me more laudanum in case she hurts," he barked.

Ah, there was the Marquess Debonairo she knew, who was too ornery to let her go.


"I can't get her to rouse. I think she's in a coma." Mark's panicked voice leaked through the fog of sleep.

"Give her a moment," Grandfather said. "She's probably just deeply asleep. Granddaughter?" A very gentle rub on the arm and then continuous stroking on the cheek.

Dragging toward consciousness, her eyes struggled to open.

Both Mark and Grandfather leaned over the bed.

"There she is," Grandfather smiled. "See? Just asleep. Your husband has been a nervous old woman since you went to sleep yesterday."

Mark threw him a dark look. "I wonder why," he rumbled. Then his eyes drifted to her and his voice softened. "Can you take some broth and water? It'd be good for you to get in some real food."

Sleep hadn't been riddled with shivers or palpitations that she could recall, which saved energy for this morning. She gave a small nod.

He slipped behind and helped prop her up. Then he set a glass to her lips. Two swallows seemed to satisfy him. Instead of moving, he shifted to have her recline in his lap.

Grandfather pulled off Mark's prosthetic, which seemed odd.

"You can do that later," Mark snapped.

"Later is what got you here." Grandfather pushed up the pant leg.

Mark jerked it back down and shifted. "I'm tending to my wife, old man," he growled.

Grandfather sat in the chair and met her eyes. "Your husband carried you for two miles and then ran for three when you went unconscious. He developed an ulcer but continued to insist on using the prosthetic to care for you—doing things that your grandmother and I were completely capable of," he added with a look thrown at Mark, "and he now has signs of an infection and the ulcer has worsened."

"I'll take care of it later!" Mark snapped, drawing the attention of other patients in the large infirmary ward.

Dragging her hand to his arm around her, she breathed, "Didn't not die...so you could." It seemed to take an extraordinary amount of energy to stay awake.

"Ha! Exactly what I've been telling him! Don't make your ill wife argue with you. She didn't come back from the dead for this." Grandfather pulled up the pant leg again and unwrapped a thick bandage around Hero.

"See it?" she rasped. The man had to have injured it quite badly for Grandfather to look so irritated with him.

"You just rest. We're taking care of it," Mark ordered and leaned back against the pillows with her reclined on his chest.

Grandfather, however, helped ease her up to see, greatly supporting her deadweight.

"For Christ's sake," Mark cursed and sat up to help hold her up.

It was angry, red, and swollen and looked incredibly painful with so much tissue eroded.

"It's showing improvement with a poultice I've been applying. He won't stop caring for you, but he'll let me tend to it most of the time when he's mixing up your feeding tube meals." Grandfather applied a poultice.

Mark gasped and breathed heavily, as if in a great deal of pain. "You can...do it when...she's asleep," he panted.

"Knowing that you're falling ill will give her incentive to get well faster. He's been absolutely falling apart several times a day in fear of losing you, Granddaughter," he added quietly and then looked up from his work to meet her gaze. "We all have," he whispered in a thick voice.

"I'm not going...anywhere," she sighed and drifted back to sleep.


"How long will it take for the shaking to go away?" she asked the surgeon days later, finally having enough stamina to recline against the pillows without aid.

The surgeon took in the piles of blankets to try to suppress the shivers that had started again, despite the warmth of the room.

Mark looked up. "Too much thyroid was removed and now she has hypothyroidism, doesn't she? Her heartrate is so slow that she'd faint to stand up."

That could be figured out later. "What about Della?"

Mark shook his head. "You don't need to worry about her. She started medication a week ago and is tolerating it well. She's lost a little bit of weight, which is to be expected, but she's stabilized and is still healthy."

"No side effects for her?"

"Not thus far," the surgeon smiled.

"So she's going to be fine?"

The surgeon smiled and nodded.

"And Tanya?" Mark tensed, as if anxious about the answer. "You've never answered that."

A sad smile touched the surgeon's lips. "Because I didn't expect her to live." He sobered and turned to her. "Mrs. Johnson, your condition is much more severe. Removing your entire thyroid suddenly when it was in such overdrive could've killed you. Leaving part of it in might be enough that you still have hyperthyroidism..."

Mark paled.

"There is popular belief that the entire thyroid needs to be removed, but I have noticed a pattern that it is those patients who eventually develop severe symptoms of hypothyroidism and mental impairment. I believe that the thyroid does something to regulate not just body temperature and the heart and mind, but other things as well, such as bone strength. Right now you're showing symptoms of hypothyroidism, which might be your body trying to compensate for the sudden thyroid loss. I'm going to be honest that it's a wait-and-guess game with you."

Tears welled in Mark's eyes and his jaw set. "That's not what you said when I wired you about taking her case."

"Because I didn't realize the extent of her disease, which sounds like it rapidly worsened while I was on the ship anyways. If you recall, Dr. Johnson, I did say I'd do my best but couldn't make promises."

"So she could die anyways." Mark pressed a hand to his mouth and looked at the ceiling for a moment, as if trying to hold back tears.

"The odds of that are drastically reduced. She's showing marked improvement already. I think our concern needs to be to watch for hypothyroidism. Hypothyroidism is much more likely to have gradual symptoms. We'll have notice that she needs treatment and have time to deliver it."

Mark sank into the chair, leaned his elbows on his knees, and bowed his head. "And hypothyroidism causes mental impairment. So she could start to overcompensate again because we left in some thyroid?"

"The worst is behind us, Mark. It's going to be alright." She reached over and set a hand on his back.

"It's not alright," he whispered without raising his head. "I'm not going to almost lose you again."

Grandfather knelt and set his hands over Mark's. "That can't happen again. We'll see changes coming, and she knows now to say if she starts to have any kind of symptoms."

"That's right," she added. "I didn't know all those different things were tied together. It is alright, Mark. You're stressed and overtired and in pain yourself from your leg. I'm getting better every day, so you need to stop worrying."

"Give her thyroid medication now. She has symptoms, and we're not waiting for cognitive impairment to set in before treating her," Mark ordered, his look to the surgeon dark with anger and grief.

"The children are coming this afternoon. That will be a good break for everyone," Grandmama added.


"You are not carrying me." She protested in bed that afternoon.

Mark's jaw flexed in irritation. "I'm perfectly capable, and you are in no condition to walk. Any energy you have needs to be saved for visiting with the children or getting well."

Her eyebrows rose. "You shouldn't even be wearing that," she said under her breath. The man would be embarrassed for other patients and surgeons to hear that he had a fake leg. "I don't even need to be here anymore."

His mouth dropped open. "You can barely sit upright! I'm not dragging you across the states to go home!"

Grandfather's arms slipped around and eased her out of bed, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. "Enough. I'll carry her—"

A red flush of rage swept up Mark's neck. "It's my duty to look after her!"

"Let's go make sure there's a lovely spot for you sit with her." Grandmama linked her arm through Mark's and dragged him out the door.

"He's so exhausted and fighting a fever himself. I think he was expecting surgery to be a cure and isn't handling it well that it wasn't," she sighed.

As he slipped through the doors, Grandfather glanced down at her. "I was worried that he'd die of heartbreak if you didn't make it. He wept just about every moment you weren't awake. What you were like those first hours when we thought he died in the fire is what we was like for days. I agree that you aren't in any condition to travel home, but I also agree with you that being here in the infirmary isn't good for either of you. Brigands has lodging just blocks away, so we'll take you there to recover."

Mark sat on a bench, with Grandmama clearly arguing with him to loosen the prosthetic so the wound wouldn't be irritated.

Grandfather eased her onto the bench beside Mark, who immediately draped an arm across the back of the bench and eased her closer to support. Then Mark reached for the blanket from Grandfather.

"I'm alright. It's too warm out for a blanket."

"It is warm. Maybe it's too warm in the sun for your incision—"

"Mark, stop. Right here the shade will hit in a while so children won't be in the sun too long and burn." She laid her head against his shoulder.

"Are you too tired? Perhaps you should be in bed for the visit—"

"Loosen your leg," she countered.

"No, if you need something—"

"I have Grandfather and Grandmama to fetch it. Loosen it or I'm going to walk."

"No, if—"

So she pushed against him for leverage to sit up, struggling embarrassingly hard.

"Stop! Goddammit, woman, you were easier to deal with when silent." He reached down and loosened the straps so the wound wouldn't rub and then pulled her close to rest against him.

A smile tugged. "Don't underestimate me, Marquess."

"Clearly," he grunted and pressed a kiss to her hair.

Just then Della and Charles burst through a gate around the corner and charged at full speed. "Mama!" They chimed in unison.

Pushing against Mark's hip to try to sit up more, it was hard to protest the aid when he took her elbow and gave leverage. His arm wrapped around the waist tight enough that it was safe to lean forward and hold out her arms. "How are my babies?"

Charles arrived first and threw himself into her arms. "Mama, I thought you'd never be done with surgery!"

A soft laugh bubbled up.

Della bounced over and climbed up. "Mama! Mama!" Some of the baby fat had disappeared from Della's arms in just the three weeks since surgery. Her eyes flew to Mark.

"It was expected and she's stabilized," he reassured, as if reading her mind. "She's perfectly healthy." He smiled as Charles climbed up in his lap.

"Papa, why did Mama's surgery take a year?"

Mark chuckled. "It wasn't quite a year, but Mama was ill afterwards. She's getting better now."

"Mama milk!" Della started tugging at the dress.

"Poppet, Mama's milk is all gone." Mark eased Della's hands away from the bandages at the neckline.

That little lip stuck out and tears welled in those sweet eyes as she stilled.

She glanced at Mark. "Oh love, you're getting to be a big girl now anyways."

"Why bye bye?" Della sniffled and rubbed a little first to her eye.

"Well, Mama got sick and all that good milk had to help Mama get all better inside," Mark explained. "So that's alright that the milk is bye bye because Mama isn't sick anymore. That's better than milk, isn't it?" He offered a smile.

Della dropped her little head against her breast in defeat. "Milk bye bye," she whimpered.

Her heart twisted. Not nursing for three weeks had to have dried up the little milk that had been left, if the illness hadn't forced it to stop to conserve energy. "But I can still cuddle you like this." She cradled Della in the same position for nursing.

Charles nodded. "Milk is for babies! You're not a baby now, you're big like me!" Charles stood up on the bench and flung up his arms.

"Me too!" Della scrambled up and copied Charles on the other side of the bench.

She reached out a hand. "Mark, I can't catch her if she falls."

"I have her." Brigands appeared to stand before the children and held his arms out just in case.

"Brigands." A smile bloomed and she held out a hand.

He stood a bit taller and grinned. "Mistress. I wasn't so certain we'd see you again." His eyes welled and he stretched his arm to keep one hand by Della and take her own hand.

Teresa stepped forward from where she spoke with Grandmama, her face all a glow. "You look even better than when Master Johnson left with you. Your grandparents kept us informed. I wasn't so certain what to say to the little ones, so we simply told them that it was a very long surgery."

She nodded and sank back against Mark. "There was no need to make them worry." With a pat to the bench for Teresa to sit and talk, she listened to the updates about the children while they ran around the yard with Brigands and Grandfather.

Her head jerked upright. She looked around.

Teresa and Brigands gave understanding smiles. Grandmama now sat beside Teresa, and Grandfather gave piggyback rides to the children.

A flush swept up. "Oh no, did I fall asleep?"

"You're still very weak. You only nodded off for a few minutes." Mark pressed a kiss to her hair. "Alright, I think Mama needs a nap."

"No." Catching his arm, she met his eyes and tried to sit up on her own. "I'm not tired."

"Easy there. The children can come back tomorrow."

All the sudden, it all seemed so overwhelming. Tears blurred everything. "I haven't seen them for three weeks. I don't want to be here without them."

Charles ran over and threw his fists down at her sides. "You can't make Mama stay! She wants to go home!" he declared and thrusted his little chin out, ever the defender for those to whom he was loyal.

Mark cocked an eyebrow. "Are you yelling at your father?"

A hint of uncertainty flashed through his eyes. "N,no." But then he stood tall again and ordered, "But yes if you're going to make Mama cry!"

With a watery smile, she caught his little hand. "Thank you, Charles, but don't yell at Papa. He just wants me better." But her face crumpled on the last words.

Mark gathered her in his arms. "Sweetheart, don't cry. Perhaps a visit earlier in the day would be better so you don't tire as fast."

"I don't want to be away from the children. I want a bed big enough for you to hold me at night. I don't want to be here," she hiccuped, trying to stop the tears when Della came over and looked worried too.

Charles patted her hand. "Papa, if you and I hold her like we do when your leg is off, we can take Mama home."

"Oh son, Mama isn't well enough yet to make it home." Mark brushed away her tears as he cradled her to his chest. "Soon, sweetheart. I'll stay the entire time."

"Mark? Brigands procured lodging just a couple blocks away. If we pad your leg well enough, you can carry her a block and I can carry her a block," Grandfather offered.

Hope flickered and she looked up at Mark.

He hesitated. "I suppose the surgeon is leaving in a week anyways, and it's close enough to summon him."

Shivers, however, returned and the surgeon insisted on at least another two days in the hospital when Mark consulted him inside. "We'll start a small dose of sheep thyroid and watch for improvement or if hyperthyroid complications return," he declared.

As the exhaustion set in so heavily that evening, silent tears fell and wouldn't stop.

"My Tanya, don't cry. I can't bear it when you're so sad." Mark scooted to the edge of his chair and took her hand. "What's wrong?"

"I want to go home, I'm so tired I can't stand it, I miss the children and I can't stop crying."

Heartache filled those blue eyes. "I know, sweetheart. The medication should help with the fatigue and sadness, both of which I think are stemming from hypothyroidism. And we'll go stay with the children in a couple days, which will also help perk you up."

"What if this never gets better? I sleep twenty-one hours a day. I'm going to miss everything with them. And I'm too tired for your bed too." Irrational tears burst out.

He climbed into the small bed and held her. "This will get better, and you're not going to miss out on everything. Your energy will come back, and even if you are too tired for the marriage bed, I love being wed to you for you, not sex. This is temporary."

"What if your leg gets worse? What if we're both in the hospital? How do we even have money for this?"

"Oh my goodness, sweetheart. You can't worry about those things. We're taking care of funds, and I'm letting your grandfather look after my leg."

Sleep finally won the battle and took her hostage. Every muscle slowly went limp as Mark wiped away her tears.


"Take it very slow." Mark held her hands three days later in the small apartment that Brigands had rented.

"I feel better with the medicine," she protested and dragged her legs over the edge of the bed to stand.

"Yes, but your heart rate is still low and you've been bedridden for three weeks. Appease me and go slow." He took moved for a better hold at the elbows.

Holding his forearms helped for leverage with easing into a stand.

His arms wrapped around and braced her tight against his chest.

Spots appeared. "Don't let go—I can't see."

"Wiggle your legs. I have you if you faint. Can you still hear?"

Ringing started to drown him out. "Down," came out in a pant before every muscle started to give out.

Vision returned a second later as he leaned over the bed and his fingers laid over the pulse at her throat.

"Better?"

"Better. Maybe just sitting longer will help."

The man sighed. "One more try and then you need to rest. You didn't completely lose consciousness, which is the only reason why I'm agreeing to a second try." He stepped back and took her hands.

"You've turned into such an old woman." A slight smile tugged.

"Maybe watching you slowly dying because I missed a diagnosis has me on edge," he snapped.

She looked up as he gently tugged to ease into a sit. "It wasn't your fault." A frown formed when he avoided eye contact or comment. "Mark."

"Maybe if I'd kept up on the research and had the balls to do the surgery myself, you wouldn't have fallen so ill in the first place," he retorted. "Maybe I wouldn't have been a half-wit and let Della go three years without diagnosis either. Whenever you or the children are ill, your grandfather and another surgeon will diagnose." He still wouldn't look.

Her brow furrowed. "Mark, I didn't even tell you I had inconclusive symptoms. Even the specialist said it can be a silent disease until it explodes."

Those blue eyes finally looked up and gave a piercing scowl. "This isn't up for discussion, woman."

"Mark—"

"One would think that missing Anna's diagnosis and killing her with treatment, writing off your parasite infestation as starvation, missing that you'd hemorrhage and need a double cesarian, and now missing both your and Della's thyroid diagnoses is more than enough to prove incompetence!" he roared, with so much pain, self-hatred, and guilt in his eyes.

"None of those prove incompetence! They were complicated cases that no one would've been able to predict! A good surgeon knows when he's in over his head, and you called a specialist rather than risk serious surgical complications because you've never even seen a thyroidectomy done! A good surgeon puts the patient above his ego, which you did! You walk a complicated line between surgeon and husband and father, and perhaps there will be a time when your diagnosis is clouded by it, but that has yet to happen!" Her shout sounded weak and small compared to his yet, but it got the job done.

"Which is exactly the time to stop treating this family myself," he hissed. "Stand up," he ordered and braced.


Sitting in the tiny courtyard on a bench next to Mark wasn't as relaxing as home, with all the noise of New York streets filtering over the stone wall. But it was far better than being in the hospital.

She glanced up at Mark. There was a constant tension around his eyes. A glance over at the grandparents and Brigands and Teresa playing with the children in the grass. None of them seemed distressed, so funds not be the source of Mark's worry. He'd been silent these past fifteen minutes, keeping an arm across the back of the bench so she could lean against him and rest.

"How do we have the funds for this? Work has been so slow since the holidays. This uncharacteristically warm weather would likely help, but we haven't been home to reap the benefits."

"It's taken care of. All you have to worry about is resting," he answered in a terse reply.

Her eyes narrowed on his profile. "I know you well enough to realize that's your way of stepping around the question. We must have astronomical hospital and food and lodging bills. Where did the money come from?"

He released a long sigh of irritation. "There are times when it would be convenient if you were like most wives and left the man to handle funds."

"I suppose that means I shouldn't return to work with you ever again either."

A dark glare served as his answer.

"Well, if that isn't agreeable, I demand to know where the funds are from."

He offered his profile.

"Grandfather! Where have the funds—"

Mark's hand slapped over her mouth. "Stop it. I took care of it on my own, and the world doesn't need to know we had financial issues," he ordered and sat back.

Grandfather walked over to Mark. "It'd be good for your wound to let the sun help heal it."

The man looked up from beneath his brow with a dark glare that had been known to shrivel men on the spot. "It's unsightly and there's no need for you to bring it up," he growled between clenched teeth.

"My Lord Dragon, you don't need to be so fierce," she said gently and patted his flat stomach. "We just want you to heal. If you won't take off your leg now, I insist that you take it off in a bit and rest in bed."

"Everyone will goddamn stop discussing my ailment!" he snapped, quite on the verge of breathing fire.

Shame. It was shame that made him upset.

When she nodded for Grandfather to leave him in peace, she pushed herself back a bit to sit more upright against Mark. "We're partners. Your worries are mine, and I'm just as worried about your leg as you are about me. One problem at a time. Did we have to take a loan from the bank?"

"There is no collateral here with us to offer a bank," he replied quietly and continued to look straight ahead. "Price agreed to an advancement if I shut down our clinic for three months and work for him during that time when we return."

Silence. Mark must've exhausted every other possible option to go groveling to a snake like Mr. Price. She slipped her hand into his. "Three months isn't so long," she lied and rested her head against his shoulder. "Thank you, Mark."

"For what?" he growled.

"For being willing to risk your leg and sacrifice your pride to Price to get me help. I don't like that you did either, but...thank you."

A sigh answered. "I would think a man should be shot for his wife to thank him for not letting her die." His tone had less bite than a moment ago.

"That's not what I meant and you know it."

His hand tightened in hers. "I'd do anything for you, sweetheart," he said gently, the tension easing from him.

"I know, my cuddle bear." A smile tugged.

"It'd serve you well to now and then at least pretend you feared my temper," he grunted.

A soft giggle bubbled up. "It'd serve your ego well, you mean. Yes, Mark, I shall pretend next time to fear it."

"Saucy, wench. You do realize that by the time you're recovered, your punishment for your sass is beyond a week now?"

The smile grew. "Is it? Oh dear. I should hope it's not a consecutive week, I don't know that you'd have the energy for that."

"Another week for that sass, woman." He gave a soft swat to the side of her leg and rested his cheek a top her head.

"You have a week of punishment too, you know."

"Do I?"

"Yes, for being so stubborn about your leg. It will leave you so exhausted that you won't be able to argue with me about tending to your leg."

He chuckled, likely for the first time in a month. "I shall acquiesce with accepting a punishment from my wife only because you're in no condition to be upset."

Her laugh made him smile.

That evening, she let her hand wander over to him in bed as she laid half draped over his side, just like during pregnancy.

The man caught her wrist and brought it up to rest on his bare chest. "You're in no condition for anything but sleep."

"I'm sick of sleeping—it's all I do. I don't need to be in any condition if you do all the work. It'd be good for you to get out some of your stress, too."

He snorted. "So you recommend having my way with you for that? No, you're too weak." His eyes closed to sleep.

She sighed and pulled her hand free to wander. "Then let me help you relax like this."

Again, he brought her hand up but kept his eyes closed. "Wife, you test my patience. You need to rest."

"I need to not feel like an invalid," she whispered and pulled her hand free to curl up under her chin. Her color was still too pale, cheeks too sunken in, hair gone too dull, and bones protruding too much since the illness had ravaged her body. "I feel so ugly, Mark. What if I always look like this?" she breathed.

His breath hitched, as if surprised. Then he rolled toward her and gently cupped her cheek to meet her eyes. "You have been deathly ill, Tanya. I see illness, but not less beauty. Your body will heal in time and be back to what it used to, perhaps even more because you won't have to fight to keep on weight. No matter how you look, I think you're beautiful. Looks have nothing to do with denying you tonight. You're still very weak, and I'd rather you save your energy to heal." He pressed a kiss to her brow.

Two nights later, he held her upright with one arm and adjusted the water temperature for the bath with the other.

A soft stroke down his arm.

"There, that should be a good temperature," he said, ignoring the caress, and turned to help her shed the robe.

Those beautiful brown eyes looked up, full of longing and love as she held onto his biceps.

She wanted attention, but she was still so weak. "Do you feel strong enough to try getting in with aid, or should I lift you in?"

The woman offered a sweet smile and looked up from beneath her eyelashes in that way that she knew drove him wild. "I'll try, Mark," she purred.

Taking her arms, he stepped to the side to better position to catch her.

Her eyes shifted to behind him and she stilled. Then one arm pulled away to cover her breasts and her head bowed, as if suddenly embarrassed.

A glance behind revealed a mirror. It was the first time she'd seen how the illness had ravaged her body to not much more than skin and bones.

"Would you get Grandmama or Teresa to help instead?" she whispered.

He frowned. "But I've helped you each night. I—" And then it dawned that she believed his nightly rejections of her advances stemmed from no longer finding her attractive.

At that moment, a tear slipped down her cheek, glistening in the lantern light.

Tilting her chin up, his mouth crushed down in a kiss that unleashed all the passion and love that just weeks ago he'd been afraid wouldn't ever happen again.

She melted against his chest, holding fistfuls of his shirt.

Something about her being so frail and smaller in his arms than ever made protectiveness surge and the embers of passion burst into a roaring flame. Sweeping her up in his arms without breaking the kiss, he carried her to the bed and eased her down. Then he straightened and shed his clothes. "You must promise to tell me if you get too tired."

Her beautiful face melted into a smile and held out her arms to him.

Dear god, there was so much joy in seeing her well enough to smile, to have more time to love her again, that it felt like his heart might burst inside. Tossing the prosthetic leg straps aside, he eased down over her and resumed the kiss.

She returned the kiss with more vigor than should be possible in her state, and eased the stump over to cradle in the bed she made with her leg, just like always.

It took a bit more effort to not crush her delicate frame, but it was so absolutely perfect to make love like this where every inch of her could press to him.

Her soft gasp of bliss as he joined her body was the last piece of joy and love that his heart could take in this moment. He joined her in the clouds, unable to tell where his soul ended and hers began. This had to be what Heaven was.


Author's Note: Thyroid was still largely not understood during the setting of this story. There were a great deal of experiments in the mid- to late-1800s where the thyroid gland was completely removed to treat Graves' disease, as is sometimes the case even today. However, they discovered that severe mental impairment set in and other complications that often led to early death because it caused hypothyroidism. Of course the surgeon's theories in this story we know nowadays are somewhat inaccurate, but they were some well-respected theories in their time. Today, Tanya's thyroid storm is still a very serious and even fatal condition for 10 to 20 percent of those with hyperthyroidism. It's now known that anesthesia, trauma, or strong infections can tip a patient over the edge into a fatal thyroid storm—a term not coined until the 1920s. In the 1860s, however, neither Mark nor the surgeon would've known that they worsened Tanya's condition with surgery (but neither was there medication invented to suppress hyperthyroidism instead) and then the effects of the thyroid resection would send her into hypothyroidism. Typically today, even thyroid storm patients improve within a week, and hyperthyroid patients see improvement within 2 to 7 days post-surgery. Tanya had such a bad recovery because surgeons didn't fully understand how the thyroid worked and had no blood tests to check it like we do today. Thankfully, we live in times where thyroid conditions are much more manageable and, if managed properly, no longer affect lifespan.