She would not be budged from Ivan’s bedside. The only thing he could do was to keep vigil with her from time to time throughout the day. She had remained by the old man’s side for over a full day. Ivan had been doing well when suddenly he had grown severely ill. He could keep nothing in his stomach, not even the broth Aliss had specially prepared. He could barely lift his head or move his arm. Everyone thought that this time was the end for him. His daughter Myra wept softly next to his bed until Aliss chased her away. Aliss refused to give up and tended Ivan like a small child, spooning liquid into his mouth and checking constantly for fever. “He was fine two days ago,” Myra whispered to Rogan as she drifted over to stand beside him. “He was eating like his old self. Margaret indulged him with that dark bread he favors, though I cannot stomach its bitter taste. He ate every bit of it along with my rabbit stew.” “He turned ill soon afterward?” Rogan asked. “The next day.”
