Chapter 7: Of Fevered Dreams:

The morning sun struggled to pierce through the heavy clouds lingering after the storm, casting Ravenwood Hall in a muted, gloomy light. Mrs. Peterson moved quietly through the kitchen, preparing breakfast, her thoughts occupied by the events of the previous night. The rain had brought more than just mud and dampness into the manor; it had brought the realization that things were changing, and not all for the better.

As she set out a tray with tea and a light meal, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. She hadn't seen Kor all morning, which was unusual given his regular habit of being up early, tending to the horses or helping with the morning chores. Worry prickled at the back of her mind, and she decided to check on him, if only to ease her concerns.

Knocking lightly on the door of Kor's room, she waited for a response. The silence that greeted her only deepened her unease. With a tentative push, she opened the door and stepped inside, immediately hit by the warm, oppressive air that clung to the room.

Kor lay sprawled on the bed, tangled in the sheets, his face flushed with fever. His breathing was labored, and a faint sheen of sweat covered his brow. Mrs. Peterson's heart sank at the sight. She hurried to his side, placing a cool hand on his forehead.

"Oh, dear," she muttered, shaking her head. "You've gone and caught yourself a nasty fever, haven't you?"

Kor stirred at her touch, his eyes fluttering open, but they were glassy and unfocused. He mumbled something incoherent, his words slurring together in a jumble of syllables that made no sense. Mrs. Peterson frowned, recognizing the signs of a fever-induced delirium.

"Hold on, my boy," she said softly, smoothing his damp hair back from his forehead. "I'll get you something to bring that fever down."

She hurried back to the kitchen, her mind racing. Fever was a serious matter, especially with no doctor nearby. She knew she needed to act quickly. Reaching into the medicine cabinet, she pulled out a small bottle of laudanum, the opiate-laced tincture often used to ease pain and reduce fever. It wasn't ideal, but it was the best she had.

Returning to Kor's side, she carefully administered a small dose, praying it would be enough to bring down the fever without any adverse effects.

but no such luck, with the advent of laudanum, Kor's fever delirium had taken on a life of its own. His babbling was a source of both amusement and exasperation.

"Do you think," Kor said, squinting at the ceiling with an intense focus, "that if you put a lemon in the middle of the moon, it would taste like pie?"

Mrs. Peterson, holding back a laugh, replied, "I suppose it might, your Grace. But I wouldn't recommend trying it."

Kor continued, his voice taking on a dreamy quality. "I once knew a fish who was convinced he could fly. He spent his days leaping from the water, imagining he was soaring over the trees."

"Oh?" Mrs. Peterson said, now openly smiling. "And did he ever manage to fly?"

"No," Kor said solemnly, "but he did get quite good at splashing."

His usually dignified demeanor was now replaced by a confused and rather comical state. He muttered incessantly, his words a jumbled mess that left Mrs. Peterson shaking her head in bemusement.

"Jellybeans," Kor mumbled, his voice weak and distant. "They're plotting with the hamsters again. Tell them I need more sugar... and a sandwich."

Mrs. Peterson, holding a wet cloth to his forehead, stifled a chuckle. "Your Grace, if only I had known you had such peculiar tastes. I assure you, the hamsters are quite well-behaved."

Kor's eyes fluttered open, and he stared at her with a mix of confusion and adoration. "Mrs. Peterson, you're the best... but did you see the penguins in the hallway? They were having a waltz!"

Mrs. Peterson's lips twitched in amusement. "I haven't seen any penguins, Your Grace. But if they're waltzing, I do hope they're dancing gracefully."

The absurdity of the situation was not lost on her. Here was a prince, of noble blood and impeccable standing, reduced to a babbling mess over what seemed to be a hallucination of waltzing penguins. She couldn't help but wonder what Revan would make of this.

The next morning, as Mrs. Peterson prepared a fresh batch of broth—a soothing remedy she hoped would help bring down Kor's fever—she was greeted by a slow, exaggerated drawl from the bedridden Kor.

"I tell you," Kor began, his voice thick with fever, "if I were a potato, I'd be mashed by now. Yes, mashed. With butter. Butter is very important."

Mrs. Peterson, trying to maintain her professional demeanor, stifled a laugh. "Indeed, Your Grace. Butter is very important."

"And then," Kor continued, his hand weakly waving as though he were conducting an invisible orchestra, "there's the matter of the ducks. Do you think they ever feel... underappreciated?"

Mrs. Peterson raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. "Underappreciated, your Grace?"

"Yes, underappreciated!" Kor insisted. "I imagine they would appreciate a thank-you note. Or perhaps a medal. Ducks deserve medals."

Mrs. Peterson, despite her concern for Kor's health, couldn't help but chuckle. "I'll be sure to inform them of your thoughts."

"And you know what else?" Kor leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm convinced the curtains are plotting against me. They keep swaying, but I've caught them. They're up to something, mark my words."

At this, Mrs. Peterson's laughter escaped, a brief but heartfelt release. She shook her head, a mixture of amusement and concern in her expression. Despite the seriousness of Kor's condition, his fever-induced antics provided a small, albeit welcome, distraction.

"I'm telling you, Mrs. Peterson," Kor declared with exaggerated gravitas, "the squirrels are plotting to take over the world, too. Maybe the go with the curtains. I've seen them huddling together, and they're up to something. Mark my words, they're very shifty."

Mrs. Peterson tried to keep a straight face, though her eyes twinkled with suppressed laughter. "I'll keep an eye out for any suspicious squirrel and curtain activity, Your Grace."

The arrival of Dr. Harrison on the Third day, a man of middle age with a stern face softened by kind eyes, brought a new element into the mix. As he took immediate stock of Kor's condition, he was greeted with intermittent bursts of Kor's fever- laudanum-induced nonsense.

"What do you think you're doing, young man?" Kor asked, peering at the doctor with a sideways glance. "Trying to steal my... my... treasure? It's in the pillow, you know."

Dr. Harrison, though professional, couldn't entirely suppress a bemused smile. "I assure you, Sir. I have no interest in your treasure. I'm here to help you get better."

"Very well," Kor replied with exaggerated solemnity, "but if you touch the treasure, you'll have to deal with the... the marshmallow army."

The doctor managed a smile despite himself. "I'll be sure to avoid the marshmallow army, then."

"It's a secret," Kor whispered conspiratorially, his eyes wide with feverish intensity. "But if I tell you, you must swear to keep it secret. Swear it!"

Mrs. Peterson, ever the good-natured caretaker, played along. "I swear, your Grace. What's the secret?"

"I'm... I'm a... a dragon in disguise!" Kor declared dramatically, then burst into giggles. "A dragon with very large wings and a fondness for... for... daffodils!"

Mrs. Peterson raised her eyebrows, her amusement mingling with concern. "A dragon, you say?"

"Yes, a dragon," Kor confirmed, nodding solemnly. "And I'm here to protect the daffodils from the... the marauding squirrels."

Dr. Harrison, struggling to maintain his professional composure, performed his examination while Kor continued to regale him with his fevered fantasies. "Do you think," Kor mused, "that if I asked nicely, the squirrels might let me be their king? Or perhaps the ducks would make me their grand marshal?"

Dr. Harrison, though trying to keep a straight face, had to take a moment to compose himself. "I'm sure you'd make an excellent king or grand marshal, Sir. But let's focus on getting you better first."

Mrs. Peterson, standing by with a warm cloth to mop Kor's brow, couldn't help but smile at the absurdity of the situation. The housekeeper's efforts to tend to Kor were now punctuated by his increasingly whimsical declarations, making her job both challenging and entertaining.

As the days wore on, Robyn's worry turned into desperation. She had been informed of Kor's condition through Mrs. Peterson, but the updates were sporadic and laden with the same kind of guarded optimism that Mrs. Peterson herself relied on to maintain her composure.

Unable to visit Kor due to societal restrictions and her ignorance of his exact location within the manor, Robyn decided to take a more proactive approach. With the help of a cookbook she had found in the library, she resolved to make him a special treat that would surely aid in his recovery.

The endeavor began with great enthusiasm. Robyn gathered ingredients with the determination of a woman on a mission. Flour dusted her apron and kitchen counters, and her brow furrowed in concentration as she mixed, measured, and stirred. The result was meant to be a simple loaf of bread, but as the dough came together, it was clear that the recipe was quickly getting away from her.

Mrs. Peterson, noticing Robyn's ambitious but misguided attempt, decided to offer discreet supervision. She watched with a mixture of amusement and concern as Robyn wrestled with the dough, her hands coated in a thick layer of flour.

"Are you certain you don't need any help?" Mrs. Peterson asked, attempting to keep her tone neutral but unable to hide her smile.

Robyn, her face flushed with both exertion and embarrassment, looked up. "I've got it! I just need to get the dough into the pan and into the oven."

With a flourish, Robyn transferred the dough into the pan. However, her lack of experience was apparent, as the dough slumped and spread unevenly. Undeterred, she placed the pan into the oven and set the timer with a sense of accomplishment.

Later, when Mrs. Peterson went to check on the progress of the bread, the result was less than stellar. The loaf had risen unevenly, and what could only be described as a "culinary disaster" had emerged from the oven. The bread was burnt on one side and barely cooked on the other, with a texture that could only be compared to a dense brick.

Mrs. Peterson, who had intended to deliver a polite refusal of the bread, found herself holding back laughter. She carried the abomination of a loaf to Kor's room with the pretense of seriousness. As she entered, Kor's fevered gaze landed on the bread with a mix of curiosity and confusion.

"What's that?" Kor asked, blinking as if seeing the bread for the first time.

"It's bread," Mrs. Peterson said, struggling to keep a straight face. "Made by Miss Robyn."

Kor's eyes widened. "Bread? Is it alive?"

"Not exactly," Mrs. Peterson said, biting her lip. "It's, um, a bit unconventional."

Kor, still under the influence of the laudanum, took a tentative bite. His face contorted in a mix of surprise and bewilderment. "This is... an interesting texture. Has she ever considered making bricks instead?"

Mrs. Peterson's laughter bubbled forth uncontrollably. "I think Miss Robyn might need a bit more practice before venturing into baking."

Kor grinned, despite his feverish state. "Tell her... tell her I'm very grateful. It's the thought that counts."

Mrs. Peterson, still chuckling, promised to convey Kor's thanks. As she left the room, she glanced back at the loaf with a fond smile, appreciating the effort Robyn had put into the gesture.

Over the next few days, Mrs. Peterson's admiration for Robyn grew. She saw the young woman's genuine concern for Kor and recognized the sincerity behind her clumsy but heartfelt attempt at baking.

Robyn's social status and reputation remained a concern, but Mrs. Peterson began to soften her stance. Perhaps, she mused, Robyn's status was not as tarnished as it seemed. She started to believe that, as a mistress of this house, Robyn would be kind and fair—qualities that Mrs. Peterson valued greatly.

Despite her growing affection for Robyn, Mrs. Peterson remained cautious. Status and reputation were not easily overlooked, and Mrs. Peterson knew that Robyn's social standing could still pose a problem. The prospect of scandal was a constant worry, but the more Mrs. Peterson observed Robyn's character, the more she began to hope that the young woman's reputation might be more resilient than she had initially thought.

Meanwhile, Kor's fever persisted, though it gradually began to ebb. His delirious rants continued, providing a daily dose of entertainment for those who cared for him. His conversations ranged from absurdities about enchanted creatures to deep philosophical questions about the nature of marshmallows.

Dr. Harrison's visits were becoming more frequent, and he, too, was not immune to Kor's whimsical ramblings. During one particularly memorable examination, Kor, in a fit of feverish clarity, launched into an impromptu monologue.

"Dr. Harrison," Kor began with a serious tone, "do you think if a cloud were to fall, it would land softly? Or would it make a noise?"

Dr. Harrison, maintaining his professional demeanor, replied, "I suppose it would be quite soft, considering how fluffy clouds are."

Kor pondered this for a moment, then nodded solemnly. "Good. I wouldn't want a cloud to land on my head and make a mess. It's bad enough dealing with ducks."

Dr. Harrison's lips twitched in amusement. "Indeed, ducks are quite the handful."

As the days wore on, Robyn's attempts to contribute continued, though she began to focus her efforts on simpler gestures. She sent small notes of encouragement, each accompanied by Mrs. Peterson's warm reassurances. The simple acts of kindness, though modest, were appreciated by Kor, even if his feverish state rendered him somewhat incoherent.

One afternoon, as Kor's condition began to improve, Mrs. Peterson brought him a fresh batch of tea and sat by his bedside. Kor, now more lucid but still weak, looked at her with a smile.

"You know, Mrs. Peterson," Kor said, "I've been thinking."

"Have you?" Mrs. Peterson asked with a curious smile. "What about?"

"About how fortunate I am to have you looking after me," Kor said sincerely. "And how kind Robyn has been, even if her bread could double as a paperweight."

Mrs. Peterson chuckled. "She's certainly been trying her best."

Kor's gaze became introspective. "About Robyn. I know I care for her, but... well, her confession about being a lady instead threw me. I had thought she was..."

"A maid?" Mrs. Peterson suggested gently.

"Yes," Kor said, nodding. "And now I'm left wondering just how much I don't know. There's also the matter of the Baron. It complicates everything."

Mrs. Peterson, who had been observing Kor's growing clarity with hope, saw the conflict in his eyes. "It's understandable. There's much you both need to sort out. Robyn's position and reputation are significant, but her heart is genuinely kind. And as for the Baron..."

Kor sighed deeply, a mixture of frustration and uncertainty evident. "The Baron's presence complicates matters further. I don't know how to address that issue without creating more problems. I need to figure out a way to navigate these waters carefully."

Mrs. Peterson placed a comforting hand on Kor's arm. "You don't have to do it alone. I'm here to support you, and we can work through these issues together."

Kor smiled gratefully, though his eyes still reflected the weight of his concerns. "Thank you, Mrs. Peterson. Your support means more than you know."

As the days continued, Kor's recovery was gradual but steady. The fever had broken, and he was regaining his strength, though the process was slow. His thoughts often turned to Robyn, and the complexities of their situation weighed heavily on him.

Robyn, from her distant vigil, continued to send her well-wishes and small tokens of care. Her concern for Kor was unwavering, and she remained hopeful despite the limitations imposed upon her.