18 October 1894 — Lestrange Household; hours after this

Adrienne had handed the baby back to the nurse after her husband left. She’d wanted to put on a brave face for him, to let him know there wasn’t anything to worry about; she would be fine, she would recover, and they would be a happy family. But her energy had been drained by the simple act of holding her son. It felt as if her head were being split in two, and soon her son had been taken back to the wet nurse, a cold compress applied to her forehead, and she was left alone to sleep.

Glowing diagnostic spells hung over her like a golden mobile, intended to trill in case any of her vitals changed. Adrienne eyed the colored orbs, knowing each of them corresponded to something but unable to remember what her textbooks had told her. After trying had led to even more of a headache, she drifted off into a deep sleep.

When she awoke she knew that night had fallen by the simple fact that the healer’s post had been left. The diagnostic spells still whirred above her, slow and pulsing. This time, Adrienne was clear-headed enough to know that she was stabilized enough. The healer wouldn’t have left if she had been in any danger. Perhaps she was recovering then. Cash seemed to have such a worried look etched into his features, she hoped he was getting some rest too.

Adrienne had little time to do much else other than wiggle her hands free from the blanket because at that moment when she glanced to the window, a familiar silver head poked its way into her room followed by an even more familiar outfit (complete with the silver sword impaling his person). “Monsieur Wye,” she rasped, raising a hand in greeting; then squinted in doubt. “Am I hallucinating or is that truly you?”

Elias Grimstone — Barnaby Wye

  

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“‘Tis I, indeed,” Barnaby said, his tone more sombre than usual from the moment he had seen her like this; his joke softened to something almost sympathetic. “But I am afraid you do look like you have seen a ghost.” In the metaphorical sense of things, anyway. Her skin was ashen, her forehead looked clammy, her voice seemed hoarse and weak – although she had raised her hand to him.

He drifted further into the room, towards the foot of the bed. If he had been bound by the rules of Living decency, Barnaby supposed he ought not be here, at this particular moment – she should be with her husband or her twin – but it was only chance that had seen him look in on her, and now that he was here he couldn’t help but think she was perhaps getting near the brink of death.

And that was rather a vested interest of his, generally speaking. (And specifically so, too – for if anyone was set to join him in this side of the afterlife, Adrienne Lestrange was a rather favourable candidate. He wasn’t sure whether it would it would flatter or distress her, to say so to her face.) His gaze lingered on the spells above her, but, being unable to decipher them, his eyes finally settled back on her. “Whatever is amiss?”

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It was him. Adrienne managed a wan smile. At least she hadn’t been truly hallucinating. That might have been a more troubling sign than having the ghost of a man slide through the wall and into her personal rooms. Oddly enough she felt the strangest urge to apologize to him for her state of being. Normally when he saw her, though it often wasn’t in when she was dressed to the nines, she still at least looked less like she was seconds away from knocking at Death’s door.

Though, perhaps this was an exception seeing as she apparently had been about to knock at Death’s door. Adrienne wondered vaguely if she’d have passed into the After Life, beyond the veil of the living, or if she’d have become a ghost much like Monsieur Wye. Frankly neither thought was comforting at the moment, and she was grateful for his question. She had to squint slightly to focus on him at the foot of her bed, transparent as he was. “What is amiss, is I’ve given birth and I don’t believe it went too well.” She replied, attempting to inject some sort of humor into her response. “I’ve been told I gave some people quite the scare, including my poor husband — could you come closer, please?”

Her hand lifted, reaching toward him. “It’s terribly hard to focus on you, and I should like to see someone else’s face other than a wet nurse or healer at the moment.”

  

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“Well, I pray you do not think my visit an ill omen of your Fate,” Barnaby said, with more inflection of tenderness and sympathy than usual – were it a stranger or someone he disliked, he might have relished the opportunity to be morbid.

But he had a soft spot of Lady Lestrange, and thought he should rather cheer her up, and see her cheeks rosy and well again, the usual cool intellectual light of curiosity in her eyes. “Perhaps a little distraction will serve you the better,” he joked back. Childbirth had indeed taken a toll on her.

He floated nearer as she bade him, trying to skirt along the bed without infecting her with any of his bodiless chill – although it struck him that a little of his deathly coolness might actually soothe her fever, if she had one. He stopped close at hand, and brought the palm of his hand towards her forehead, tentatively. “May I?”

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   Adrienne Lestrange

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Adrienne hummed out a small laugh. “I should enjoy whatever distraction you see fit to give me, Monsieur,” She murmured, feeling her muscles strain as she allowed herself to lean back in the pillows. The dim light of the orbs above her were starting to become tedious to look at, and she gladly focused on the silvery features of the ghost approaching her bedside instead. “And perhaps if it was any other ghost, I might see some cause for concern. But it’s just you.” Just you.

She was glad to see him, even in his somewhat gory appearance with an Elizabethan sword sticking out through his ribs. Her eyes followed him as best they could, tracking his movement as he lifted his hand to her forehead in askance. Once she realized what he’d been meaning to do, Adrienne gave a little gasp of understanding and nodded eagerly. “Oh yes please, if you don’t mind.” She consented, her smile widening.

  

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Just him. She was not concerned by him, she meant; or at least, Barnaby hoped she meant it in a way that set him apart gladly, and not diminished him to irrelevance or unimportance. For Adrienne Lestrange, when set among the Livings he knew, was quite important to him.

“In truth I could say this paleness suits you well,” Barnaby said, for a little flattery (in case she did cross over; hopefully she would see the benefits in remaining a spirit on earth); but soon quieted in favour of settling his icy-cold palm on her forehead. “Does it soothe at all?” Barnaby asked, full of hope (and a little thrill that for once in his Unlife he might actually prove useful in such a way). He had talked to her of the pain of not being able to touch anything before. But this was as close as he had ever felt to managing it – he passed his hand over her head in a caressing motion, so that she might feel the coolness spread, and that he might imagine he was actually stroking her hair.

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“I’m glad it doesn’t frighten someone at least,” Adrienne rejoined with a hum of amusement. “It seemed to scare the daylights out of everyone else who came by to visit.” Oh she didn’t begrudge them for poorly masking their terror upon seeing her, but it was quite nice to at least be regarded without seeing her own inner turmoil reflected in someone for once. The new mother found that the more people were visibly shaken, the more her nerves seemed to flay themselves in response.

She wanted to live. But their doubts about her not being able to make it were rather unsettling. And even though she had an inkling Monsieur Wye was - for once - perhaps holding back his more morbid compliments, it was more the lack of fear in him that she felt grounded in. Adrienne couldn’t help but let out a little groan of relief as his hand passed over her skin. With the rest of her body feeling as if it had been dunked in a vat of boiling water, the coolness that began to spread at her forehead was an absolutely delightful sensation. “Ohhh, it soothes wonderfully,” She sighed, her eyes fluttering closed briefly.

Her hand automatically came up. Hovered over his own momentarily before she remembered their circumstances. She still reached forward until her fingertips felt the coolness of his barrier and tried to guide his hand to her temple. “Would you move to just there, please?”

  

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“Only the living daylights,” Barnaby corrected, with a playfulness that was almost certainly out of place here, on her birthing-and-not-quite-deathbed. But never mind: he would take this for cheering her up spiritually as well as physically.

And, with a slight smile, he obliged her by following the nudge of her fingertips (he could imagine her touch radiating with heat) to another spot, and sank his hand toward her temple again, to give it that ice bath of sorts. He might have been a little too pleased at her first groan of relief; and busy thinking dirty thoughts he ought not conceive of... though in his defence, it was not oft he could prompt such sounds of pleasure by physical action any more, so he would take the wins he could.

“I can stay as long as you may wish it,” Barnaby offered, and never mind that ghosts were indefatigable, and did not have an excess of social invitations otherwise. “And how fares your babe?” Barnaby was, admittedly, not much interested in children – but Adrienne Lestrange’s would surely be more interesting than most.

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She had to give a low chuckle at his addition of the word ‘living’. Everyone around her had been so morose, so scared to - well, death - that Adrienne welcomed any sort of humor she could get. Even if said humor was a bit morbid. She supposed that happened when one nearly met their maker. She had a feeling that any sort of humor would make her laugh. Had she not been afraid of making Monsieur Wye feel as if he were a court jester, she would ask him to tell another joke.

And perhaps hearing that he was able to stay longer gave her more pleasure than it ought to have. Adrienne wasn’t afraid to admit she enjoyed his company, perhaps from the moment he’d floated into her life all those miles below the surface of the black lake.

“Truly?” She asked, her eye peeking open a smidge as she peered at him. “You may regret telling me you can stay as long as you’d like, Monsieur. For one, this feels too good to let you out of my sight for the forseeable future. And secondly, you may be beyond the land of the living, but I’ve been told a babe’s scream can be earsplitting no matter who you are, man, spirit or beast.”

  

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