“Honoré, have some more duck.” Gédéon signals to Fredeline. “The boy needs it. Look at him. He’s too pale. Too thin, too.”
Seated at the large dining table, Honoré stares at the play of light in the crystal decanter. He can’t eat yet. His stomach is still too tight and upset from the pill, that everlasting pill, they forced down his throat the day before last. He purged and purged, and was in bed for forty-eight hours, too weak to raise his head. Doctor Beaufort says the pill helps to get rid of the excessive moods his body holds.
But they’re wrong. They’re all wrong. Only McGauran holds the cure to his ailment.
“Have Bernard bring a glass of sherry to his bedroom later, at least.” Gédéon dismisses Fredeline with a hand gesture. “Give us a moment before you clear the table.”
Fredeline
