Page 116 of Gates of Tartarus

“I’m pretty sure I have a fever. Does my forehead feel hot? And my nose is stuffy,” I add, as if that clinches it.

“Here you are.” Kavi hands me a cup of tea, with milk.

“No lemon?” My lip wobbles.

“Err, not sure we have any?” He looks at the other two, who shrug.

“That’s OK.” Wearily, I take a sip. “I am not a well person,” I proclaim to the room at large. I sigh. If they knew how ill I felt, they’d appreciate how stalwart I’m being.

“Come on, Maela. I think you should go back to bed.” Kavi takes my cup of tea, and I let him pull me to my feet.

Upstairs, I climb into bed, and he tucks the duvet round me. “Now, try to get some sleep,” he says kindly. He leans down and kisses my forehead. I sigh again, and my eyes flutter closed.

Some time later, there’s a knock on the door. “Maela, how are you feeling?”

I yawn and struggle up on the pillows. “Jorge? What are you doing home?”

“Looking after you.” He comes into the room. “We didn’t want to leave you alone. Can I get you anything?”

I do a quick inventory. My headache’s better, but my ears and throat are still sore. “Tea? With honey? And lemon?”

He smiles. “I’ll try.”

While he’s gone, I open my Kindle and swipe through the books, seeing if there’s anything I want to re-read. Nothing’s grabbing me, so I toss it onto the duvet. Maybe I can watch something on my mobile phone.

Jorge comes back into the room, carrying a mug and plate. “Tea, with honey and lemon,” he announces triumphantly. “And some shortbread.” He places them on the table beside the bed and fluffs up my pillows.

“Thank you,” I mew. The tea slides comfortingly down my throat and warms my stomach. “Jorge?”

“Sí?” He cocks his head at me.

“Can you get me a paperback? Maybe a murder mystery? From the lounge?”

His eyes soften. “Sí, querida.”

I’m nibbling on a piece of shortbread when he comes back into the room. “Here you are. One murder mystery, as requested.” He hands me the book, and my face falls.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing, just… I’ve already read that one. Can you get me another?”

“Of course, querida.” He disappears and comes back with an armful of books. “Murder mysteries and romance novels. Just in case,” he explains, piling them rather untidily on the bed.

“Thanks, Jorge,” I say gratefully, looking at the spoils.

“De nada, Maela. All good?”

“We-ell. As long as you’re asking, can I have another tea?” I hold up my mug and flutter my lashes, trying to look winsome. “Pretty please?” I’m pretty sure I see a muscle tighten fleetingly in his cheek – Emlyn’s clearly imprinting on him and Kavi both – but Jorge just says mildly, “Sí, querida” and goes down to the kitchen.

Five minutes later, he returns with a steaming mug of tea. “And a few more biscuits,” he announces, setting them on my bedside table.

“Oh, Jorge, thank you! You’re my hero!”

He leans over and strokes my hair. “Anything formi amada. All good now?”

“Ummmm.”

“Sí?” This time, there’s a definite edge in his voice, and I rush on. “Maybe you could stay with me, just for a little bit? Do your work here?” There’s a nice big armchair, next to a dainty table, by the window.

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