Neither of them spoke a word, nor was there the slightest movement in the huge bed, but the very air they breathed seemed replete with some fiery energy. Though he could not see her face, he guessed she watched him standing, waiting, daring her to make the first move. The air itself, while hot and full of strange currents, smelled surprisingly sweet. A large bouquet of purplish flowers—larkspur perhaps?—threatened to topple a delicate table, but they alone could not account for the scent. Indeed, it felt as if something of the outdoors entered the bedchamber with him, for Ben could sooner imagine himself in a field of barley than in the company of a dying girl. And, so imagining, he added conviction to the suspicion he had harbored since Raeborn told him of his beloved’s ailment—he believed Lady Larkspur’s illness to be nothing but artifice. The chambers of the sick and infirm were filled with all the odors of humanity and earthiness, but they never smelled like spring meadows.
