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I glanced back at Theodore, slumped over the horse’s back. The sight alone sent a shot of worry through me. I cleared my throat. “Excuse me.”
The man sucked in a startled breath. Sat up on the edge of his chair. “Yes?”
“Are you Hector?”
The man’s jade-colored eyes were kind, edged in a soft crosshatch of wrinkles. They narrowed on me. “I am.”
He took in my appearance. The soaked, dirty clothes. My knotted tumble of dark, wet hair. Those kind eyes turned hard when they landed on Theodore’s unconscious body.
“Who do you have there?”
“Theodore, king of Varya,” I answered, softly. “He’s sick.”
Hector’s eyes bulged. He moved quicker than I expected him to, stepping off the porch and coming to Theodore’s side with long strides. He set a knobby hand to Theodore’s wet cheek. “Let’s get you warm and dry, my boy.”
Together, we lowered him from the horse, set one arm over each of our shoulders. We started slowly toward the cottage through the mud. “And who are you?” Hector asked in a strained voice.
“I’m Imogen.” I ignored the weight of the severing draught in my pocket. I ignored the shame that made me want to admit all the things I truly was. “I’m Theodore’s wife.”