#earthshattering

Madeleine swallowed, feeling that the slight itch which had resided in her throat for the past few days had blossomed into a bit of tenderness. Her nose was slightly congested as well, but to call these discomforts a cold would be to spit in the face of all the colds ever suffered. She scarcely even felt ill at all.

Still, Madeleine settled herself deeper into the bedclothes. The knowledge that her husband would ask nothing of her today was a better balm than could be boasted by any healer. She was content to doze; the weak, pinkish quality of the light streaming from the window told Madeleine she had awoken a good deal before her chambermaid, Jeanne, would be in. 

At the thought of her chambermaid, though, the opposite of tranquility took hold of Madeleine. She enjoyed Jeanne’s company like she had never enjoyed that of her husband’s, nay, that of any of her suitors previous. The morning’s ablutions, when Jeanne dressed her and combed her hair and chatted of gossip and memories, were always like an afternoon in midsummer: warmly divine and ever too ephemeral. The day before, Madeleine had hoped that Jeanne would have stayed longer, especially since her husband was gone, but Jeanne had left just as always. 

But, Madeleine felt an idea taking root in her mind, if she were unwell, Jeanne would have no choice but to stay with her. Madeleine almost dismissed the idea outright as quickly as it had come, but the thought of Jeanne caressing her cheek to check for fever, helping Madeleine slowly into a warm bath for her aches, spending the day at her bedside… Madeleine shivered. Her husband was a hard, sparse man, and desired that his wife live that way as well. When again would Madeleine have such an opportunity? She would allow herself this indulgence. 

She dozed until Jeanne announced her presence with a knock and slipped into the door to the bedchamber. Madeleine huddled in the coverlets and forced a few coughs. 

“Jeanne,” she said, the coughs having roughed up her voice. “I feel dreadful.”

Instantly, Jeanne set aside the pot of water she had brought, and fixed her warm brown eyes on Madeleine. “What is the matter?”

“My throat burns,” she said, taking care to sound a bit pathetic. “My head, no, my entire body aches.” She sniffled as emphatically as she could. “Would you bring me a handkerchief?”

“Of course, my lady.” Jeanne scurried to the chest of drawers across the room and took out two, handing them both to Madeleine with a frown. “It sounds as though you’ve taken ill.”

“Oh, I fear I have.” Madeleine buried her nose in the handkerchief, rubbing the ticklish seams beneath her nostrils to coax a sneeze to help her cause. “Ihhh’tschoo! Ihh’SHHH!” She groaned and made a great show of sniffling in the aftermath.

“Poor Madeleine.” Jeanne cupped her cheek, then laid her soft hand across Madeleine’s brow. Madeleine closed her eyes and leaned into the touch, seeking to memorize the way every line in the woman’s hand felt, pressed against her skin. “It doesn’t feel like you are feverish, at least.”

Jeanne’s hand moved again to her cheek, then to the junction between jaw and throat. Was it just Madeleine’s imagination, or did the woman’s touch linger there before she broke away? A fire tugged at Madeleine’s belly, and she took solace in the fact that if she appeared flushed, Jeanne would credit it to her illness.

“Shall I run you a bath? With rosemary oil, to soothe your aches?”

“Please,” Madeleine said, and she hoped she sounded frail rather than breathless as she felt. 

Jeanne sent for a member of the kitchen to boil water and have it delivered to the bedchamber, and while her back was turned, Madeleine coaxed forth a few more sneezes. “Ihh’KSHIEW! Hihh’tshhh! Ihh’TSCHIEW!”

Madeleine continued her production as the servants came with the water and oils and tub, sniffling and sneezing and coughing as Jeanne prepared her bath. At each sound, Jeanne looked up at her, beautiful brow furrowed in concern, and if it did not set Madeleine’s chest aflutter so it would have plagued her with guilt. 

She leaned against Jeanne as the chambermaid undressed her, relishing in the accidental scrapes of nails against her skin, the unintentioned breath against her neck. The steam and the oils did a better job than Madeleine’s handkerchief could ever do, and her sniffles gave way to another pair of sneezes. “Ahh’KSHH! Heh’TSCHIEW!”

“Oh dear,” Jeanne cooed, giving Madeleine’s bare back a soothing rub. “Let’s get you in the bath, then. 

Madeleine sank into the blissful embrace of the bathwater, feeling Jeanne support her the whole way down. The sensation was so heavenly Madeleine almost forgot to cough a bit to keep up appearances. With firm and nimble fingers, Jeanne massaged the oil into her shoulders, her neck, her back, and Dear God, what if she had been using her lips instead… Madeleine jolted with a shiver so violent it shook the tub. 

“What’s the matter? Have I hurt you?”

“No, no,” Madeleine said weakly. She cleared her throat and willed herself to be still. “Just a chill.”

“Best get you dry and back to bed, then.”

Jeanne helped Madeleine dry with clean linens, then dressed her back into her nightclothes. Any of the actual symptoms of Madeleine’s half-cold were long forgotten, overshadowed by Jeanne’s tender closeness, the soft little cluck of her tongue whenever Madeleine made a show of misery. 

Jeanne tucked her back beneath the bedclothes, and Madeleine caught her wrist as she turned away. 

“Would you stay with me?” she said lowly, giving a pitiful little cough. “It is awful to be ill and alone.”

Jeanne smiled softly and took a seat on the bed beside her. She curled her fingers around Madeleine’s, and with her other hand smoothed back the stray hairs gathered on Madeleine’s brow. Jeanne leaned forward and pressed a lingering kiss to Madeleine’s temple.

Jeanne pulled back slowly, never taking her eyes off Madeleine. Madeleine shifted, Jeanne shifted, and before she knew it there were soft lips pressed against her own, fitting there as none had before. They kissed and Madeleine’s heart began to race as she slotted her hand against the crook of Jeanne’s neck, but all too soon the woman pulled away. 

Jeanne sat back, panting. “But you are much too ill for this, my lady.” The title dripped like spiced wine, sweet and teasing, from her lips now. 

“I’m not,” Madeleine said desperately. “I’m not, Jeanne. A tickle in my throat, nothing more. I just wanted…” She swallowed heavily, embarrassed now as she admitted to it. “I wanted your attention.”