Fever at Kingsday

Loyal hadn’t noticed it earlier, but Tom Fox was paler than usual, and a spot of color had risen high on each cheek, an effect that made his face look even more like a mask than ever. It seemed pointless to worry over the health and well-being of Tom Fox, but by late evening his eyes were bright and the signs were unmistakable—he had a fever. It was almost ridiculous, Loyal thought as he kicked off his boots; the boy had always given the appearance of being inhuman and therefore invulnerable, but that, of course, was a foolish mistake. What else was he, if not a human being—even if he didn’t know entirely how to act like one.

“You look sick,” Loyal told him frankly, once he saw Tom Fox still intended to change for that evening’s festivities. “I know you won’t listen to me, but I don’t think you should go tonight.”

Rather than turn an impeccable cold shoulder, as Loyal had expected, Tom Fox paused in the task of buttoning up his collar and sat down on the edge of his bed. “I am aware of that,” he said. “I was hoping it would wait another day, but then again, it never does.”

“It never does—?”

“The fever,” Tom Fox explained. “It comes every year, on the Day of Kings.”

It was merely another odd detail in the list Loyal had been compiling since the day they first met—a list far too long and too peculiar to recall the entirety of. Loyal did his best to remember the particulars of each week, and no more. What troubled him, however, was Tom Fox’s resignation to the matter. Surely he was the sort of person who wouldn’t allow illness to affect him, and especially not a yearly ailment. With all the evidence Loyal had, the obvious assumption was that Tom Fox should have expended all his indefatigable stubbornness in forcing the fever out of his body, and out of his life, once and for all.

“You are looking at me curiously,” Tom Fox said, nostrils flaring. “I sincerely hope that is not an expression of concern.”

“Of course not,” Loyal said. “”I’d never presume so much. You’ll miss the celebration, then?”

“I always do,” Tom Fox replied. He bent down and began to undo the laces of his high boots with no sign of being affected by his condition. Most people in Loyal’s acquaintance, when in the grips of a fever, became very sweaty and unpleasant to look upon, but this was not so for Tom Fox. The only indication he was in any way uncomfortable were the glassy intensity of his eyes, as if they had been polished, and the flush, precise and stark upon his cheeks. Loyal had been looking forward to the feasting and fireworks, the city famous throughout the countryside for its extravagant displays, but he couldn’t arrive without his partner. Questions would be asked, reproof given. Besides, it was the first true sign of humanity that Tom Fox had ever actually shown, and Loyal realized somewhat ruefully that he was drawn to it as a midge to the flame, or any other small insect wooed from safe obscurity to the illumination of a light far bigger and far more magnificent than he could hope to comprehend.

And, beyond all that, it was the right thing to do: right because Tom Fox was his partner and roommate, and right especially because it would be an utterly thankless job, a complete and total martyrdom.

Loyal left the room to find a pot or bucket of some kind, and managed to borrow a rather over-the-top porcelain basin from Blacktree, who was late to the feasting because he was still arranging his hair in preparation. Cold water, Loyal recalled distantly, was soothing for a fever, though he had never suffered one himself. In the bathroom he nicked one of the washcloths after filling the basin up in one of the tubs. Carrying it back up the three flights of stairs to the room was tricky but not impossible, and by the time he returned, Tom Fox was wearing his silk pajamas and his white cotton night gloves and was sitting up in bed, his eyes trained on the door. Loyal set the basin and the washcloth by the side of his bed, pulled up one of his uncomfortable foreign chairs and dipped his fingers in the water to test the temperature.

“Tell me,” be said, brushing the hair on Tom Fox’s forehead away to press his damp knuckles against his brow, “is this too cool?”

Tom Fox’s skin was burningly warm but, oddly enough, as dry as bone. He should probably be sweating, considering the fever he was running, Loyal thought, but he was not and the anomaly was worrying. Underneath the shadow cast by Loyal’s hand over his face, Tom Fox’s gray eyes were now fixed on Loyal’s face in unflinching, unfathomable concentration, and the fever had transformed them from their usual stony indifference to a violent sort of brightness, red-rimmed and fierce as a sick cat’s.

“It is not too cool,” Tom Fox said.

“All right,” said Loyal. “Good.” He removed his hand and wet the cloth, wrung it out, then held it against Tom Fox’s left temple. “You said you suffer this fever every year?”

“It is unavoidable,” Tom Fox said. “Yes.”

Loyal could think of nothing more to say. This was often the case with Tom Fox, and Loyal was long past the point of feeling awkward about the long silences Tom Fox fostered. Loyal concentrated on the simple task of dipping the cloth in the water when it got too hot, wringing it dry, and pushing Tom Fox’s hair from his eyes whenever it fell back over his brow so it wouldn’t become too damp. It was at least something with which he could keep himself busy.

“What time is it?” Tom Fox asked suddenly, as Loyal was wringing out the tepid cloth and wetting it anew for the fourth or fifth time.

Loyal checked his timepiece. “Quarter past,” he said. “Are you late for a pressing engagement?”

“The display,” Tom Fox said, “of fireworks—it begins at half-past. You will miss it.”

“Not at all,” Loyal replied. “If you’ll allow me to move the hammock? We should both be able to see it from that window; it faces North, doesn’t it?”

“It would serve you better,” Tom Fox said at length, “to move the lamp instead of the hammock.”

“Here, will you—?” Loyal asked, holding out the washcloth. When Tom Fox took it he pushed away from the bed and, struggling with the wildly complicated lamp and its many bulb-encrusted tendrils, managed to pull it away from blocking the window. The curtains were drawn and Loyal flung them open immediately; outside, most of the city lights had been dimmed or turned off completely in deference to the fireworks display, which gave Loyal the sense that all was inky grasping eternal blackness between him and forever.

“Come,” said Loyal, “shall we move the bed closer to the window? Purely,” he added with a grin, “for my own sake, that while I tend to you I might have a better view.”

Tom Fox was as ever void of any reaction to attempts at humor, though Loyal knew firsthand that he was capable of making his own jokes, if not laughing at others’. It was possible that he simply didn’t find Loyal amusing, though that, Loyal thought wasn’t very likely at all. “All right,” said Tom Fox at long last.

The bed was heavy, of the four poster variety and excellently crafted, and it took some considerable effort before it would budge; eventually, after a few grudging inches had somehow been gained, Loyal admitted defeat and collapsed in the bony grip of the chair with a great heave of a sigh. It was two minutes to half past nine o’clock.

“I’ve never seen the fireworks in the city before,” Loyal admitted. “Only the occasional private country display. One year, my father brought from the gypsies a collection of sparkling sticks—when you lit the proper end on fire you could hold them by the other and watch as they hissed and spat little bits of fire, I suppose. I never cared much for the science involved. My father bought one of each color, from green to yellow to purple, but I only managed to burn the orange and pink ones before my mother discovered me and confiscated all of them. It was a great tragedy. To this day I wish I’d followed my first instinct and burned all the damn things at once.”

“Shh,” Tom Fox said, gloved forefinger pressed against his lips for a moment before he pointed it to the window.

A mere second later, the first firework went off, belching a ring of gold-tinged blue like an exploding chrysanthemum against the blackest backdrop of the sky.

“Oh,” said Loyal. “Ah.”

The fireworks came in countless different colors, shapes and sizes, and the echoes of the sounds they made as they burst shook the very foundations of the tower. They even reverberated in Loyal’s chest like the pulse of a motorbike beneath him. Loyal forgot his patient completely in favor of staring at and out the window, as the fireworks went off one by one: enormous flowers of purple and green, pink and purple anemone rows, dancing gold and white arms that snapped their lightning way down the sky; fireworks that burst on their way up in red and white zig-zags, fireworks that marked out multicolor, lopsided shapes and messages and fireworks that seemed to be no more that handfuls of sequins magnified, fragmented and momentary. Loyal’s favorites, he decided magnanimously, were whichever ones came next, for each one was more breathtaking than the last. They were more bright and more beautiful than anything else and at times they seemed to be reaching their thin, enormous fingers into the very room in which Loyal sat watching them.

When it was over, after a finale of endless dancing light, shapes overlapping and firework devouring firework in an almost endless relay of powder and color and sound ceaseless and almost oppressive, Loyal leaned back in his chair.

“Different, I take it,” said Tom Fox, “from sparkling sticks.”

Loyal turned to face him, having only just remembered he was also there in the room, and grinned again despite the obvious extension of Tom Fox’s beloved farmer jokes. “Oh, quite,” he said. “They’re getting close, I’m sure, to the splendor that is the country bumpkin’s sparkling stick—one day, they may seek to rival its opulence and glamour. A noble aspiration, to be sure. Shall I take over? You’re getting your gloves wet.”

“If you must,” Tom Fox said.

“Oh, certainly,” Loyal replied. “My greatest joy in life is forgoing all manner of Kingsday delicacies in order that I may mop your fevered brow.”

“I did not ask you to do it.” Tom Fox’s gloved hand stilled, the washcloth pressed against his brow, even as Loyal moved to claim it.

“Come now, don’t be that way,” Loyal tutted. “That glove is soaked through, and I believe that’s one swift way to catching a chill. Another chill. Something like that.” He took over, the rumble of fireworks still in his belly and, he thought, far pleasanter than any feasting meal. Without thinking, he reached to remove the wet glove; doubtless, Tom Fox had any number of the cotton ones he used for sleeping, and it could easily be replaced by one of those.

Tom Fox caught his wrist in a sudden, steely grip. Focus had returned to his eyes and the ferocity of his gaze startled Loyal so greatly that he almost dropped the washcloth, though the fingers of his other hand were yet caught, hooked underneath the wrist of the glove in question.

“What are you doing,” Tom Fox said in a flat, blade-sharp voice. It was not a question.

Loyal slowly, carefully relaxed his fingers and Tom Fox allowed him to, even aided him in retracting his arm. His grip almost snapped Loyal’s hand from the rest of his arm—at least it certainly felt that way. His face, Loyal realized, was more like a serpent’s than a cat’s, and he knew it was not the fever that caused Tom Fox to act this way.

“The glove is wet,” Loyal began to explain.

“I will change it, if it brings me discomfort,” said Tom Fox.

“I meant no harm.”

“So you say.” Tom Fox released Loyal’s wrist that Loyal might put as much distance between them as they both wanted, and Loyal was only too glad to oblige. Tom Fox was no ordinary serpent but a poisonous one, and suddenly he was biting mad, more emotion in his eyes than Loyal had ever had any reason to believe him capable of showing. Loyal thought of his first impression, that he might not be safe to sleep in the same room with this boy, and was less certain now that it had been a foolish joke of a notion. Rubbing his wrist, he moved to return the lamp to its familiar place in front of the window, drawing the curtains on the bright lights of the city, once again bursting with vibrant electricity.

“Join your friends,” Tom Fox commanded. “They appreciate your company much more than I.”

“As I appreciate their company more than I do yours,” Loyal returned, “but I have a duty to you, and you’re—unwell.”

“No one would think twice of seeing you there without me,” Tom Fox said. “Surely, they would applaud it.”

Loyal snorted, fishing about in Tom Fox’s glove drawer before warily sitting once more by his bedside. “I have a duty to you,” he repeated, “and you’re unwell.” He tossed a fresh pair of cotton gloves in Tom Fox’s lap, then kicked up his socked feet onto the edge of the bed wiggling his toes and trying to shake off the feeling that he was still unsafe, a hunted animal not quite apprised of his enemy’s prowess as a beast of prey.

“Oh, yes,” Tom Fox said. “Thomas Loyal, true to your name.” Loyal shrugged, and Tom Fox shifted his gaze to Loyal’s feet. Loyal found he was relieved to see the other boy’s nostrils flare: that, at least, was a familiar sight, if not normal, and did something to dispel the animosity hanging tense and crackling in the air like sulfur from the fireworks display.

“Come,” Loyal said, holding out his hand at a safe distance away. “Give me the flannel, and change your gloves.”

“You are of a remarkably affable nature,” Tom Fox said, after a long pause, which Loyal thought he might perhaps have been using to regain his composure. “I have never seen such a nature possessed by a person before—only certain breeds of dog.”

“I like dogs,” Loyal said.

“So do I,” said Tom Fox, before he dropped the washcloth into Loyal’s outstretched hand.

“Do you?” Loyal shifted forward without making any sudden movements, the way the gypsies had taught him true hunting, low and steady-breathed through the underbrush, to brush Tom Fox’s hair behind his ear once again, and press the cool cloth to the pulse at his temple. “I would have thought you’d prefer cats.”

“I do not. They are unkind creatures,” said Tom Fox.

“Not kittens,” Loyal protested.

“They are different,” Tom Fox acquiesced. “They are not really like cats at all.”

Loyal watched as Tom Fox folded his hands in his lap without changing his gloves and said, before he had time to think the better of it: “You haven’t changed your gloves.” He regretted it almost immediately; he’d pushed his luck, overstepped his bounds, and Tom Fox was like a cobra ready to strike, Loyal knew that now.

Tom Fox, however, did not strike at all. “All right,” he said instead. “But you must leave the room.”

“I will not,” Loyal said. After a moment’s reconsideration, he added, “But I’ll close my eyes, if you insist.”

Tom Fox seemed less than convinced. “Some dogs,” he said, “are particularly deceitful.”

“I’m undone with curiosity,” said Loyal, “but I won’t peek.”

“I’ve no reason to believe you.”

Loyal soothed the hot skin of Tom Fox’s cheek before he moved to dip the washcloth in the basin; the water was rapidly warming, though the room wasn’t very warm at all, and Tom Fox’s skin felt no less feverish for all Loyal’s good-intentions and awkward ministrations. “You’re just going to have to,” Loyal said, wringing out the flannel and closing his eyes.

It was the oddest contest of wills Loyal had ever played, and he’d once gunned a motorbike over the edge of a ravine while engaged in a game of chicken or cock with the local gypsy boys; he’d broken his nose, but he’d won the day. It seemed an even trade at the time, until he’d returned home with blood on his face and his mother caught sight of him, at which point he’d learned very quickly the error of his ways. The bone had healed crookedly and Loyal always thought it gave him a decidedly rakish air, but his mother had never been able to look at him after that without wincing.

Loyal heard the rustle of Tom Fox’s bedclothes as he shifted, and imagined he also heard the sound of one glove being drawn off and another being donned, though of that he was less certain. He could hear a few drops of water fall from the washcloth into the basin, and then he felt Tom Fox’s fingers on his wrist, much more gently this time, guiding the cloth and Loyal’s hand to Tom Fox’s brow.

“You may open your eyes,” Tom Fox said.

The damp gloves were resting on the side of the bed and Tom Fox’s hands were folded in his lap as before.

It had been harder than anything not to open his eyes, and Tom Fox’s face registered no surprise nor any pleasure at Loyal’s honesty, but Loyal was nevertheless glad he hadn’t done it, despite the keen edge of curiosity that worked upon him late into the night.