A Fainting Spell

How, in whatever Hell this world possessed, was it so stifling in a house that was constantly pelted with wind and rain?! Cecilia should have known something was off when the air in the corridor thickened. It was not the usual mildew-and-dust thickness, but a syrupy, narrative thickness, the kind that slowed your limbs, made your eyes flutter, and sprinkled lace-trimmed dizziness through your brain.

“Ah,” she muttered, sourly rubbing her temple. “So it’s come to this. The fainting chapter.”

Sure enough, her knees buckled—without my permission, mind you. A swoon, they call it. A dainty little descent into helplessness.

Except hers was not dainty.

If Cecilia was going to faint, she was going to absolutely eat it. When she felt herself start to tip, she let herself go like a vase off the edge of a table. She collapsed like a sack of potatoes being hurled from a cart, tray of linens flying. Somewhere in the background, violins struck up the soft, tragic melody of Oh No, the Poor Maiden Is Overcome.

And right on cue—Boots pounding, cloak flaring, voice velvet-dark.

“Little dove!” the lord cried, sweeping her into his arms with alarming efficiency. “Your fragility betrays you!”

Fragility? Please. She had once carried three chamber pots down a flight of stairs without spilling a drop. But no—the novel had decided she was delicate, so there she was, flopped against his chest like an anemic ragdoll.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, already angling his jawline toward my forehead as though preparing to brand me with a kiss of protection. “I shall not let you fall.”

She snorted against his waistcoat. “Bit late for that, isn’t it? Already hit the floor. You’re more of a post-fall enthusiast than a rescuer.”

His arms tightened. “Hush. Rest. You are safe with me.”

“Oh, don’t you dare hush me,” she said, wriggling like an eel. “If I’m going to faint, I’ll provide commentary, thank you.”

The violins swelled, desperate to drown her out. She coughed pointedly in rhythm with the melody until they sputtered into awkward silence.

He carried her through the corridor, as though the servants’ quarters were miles away instead of twelve feet. His pace was measured, dramatic, each step designed to showcase noble selflessness.

So, she upped the ante.

“Mind my head on the doorframe!” she yelped. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, tilt me sideways—there, like a sack of flour, yes, much more practical.”

The lord scowled but complied, shifting her under his arm like actual luggage. The violins, insulted beyond repair, abandoned the scene altogether.

“Better,” she said. “Now hum something cheerful. Maybe a tavern jig? Nothing says ‘romantic rescue’ like polka.”

His lips pressed thin. “You mock what is solemn. Do you not feel the…the bond? The closeness this trial has wrought?”

“Closeness?” She craned her neck to look up at him. “My face is in your armpit. I feel closeness, yes, but not of the poetic variety.”

They reached the threshold of my quarters. He tried to lower her gently, ceremoniously, onto the narrow cot. Instead, she made sure to flop like a corpse, arms akimbo, tongue lolling dramatically.

“See?” she declared, eyes still closed. “Now this is tragic.”

“Maid—”

“Nope.” She sat upright, startling him. “Let’s be honest, my lord. You didn’t rescue me. You just got a free workout. And I don’t need gallantry—I need electrolytes.”

She shoved a stale cookie from her apron pocket into her mouth, chewing noisily. Crumbs flew everywhere as she consumed like a starved rat. Not only was the display very unladylike, it was also very effective as the lord stood there, cloak sagging, heroism leaking from him like air from a punctured balloon.