Page 17 of The Duchess’ Little Miracle

She was listening.

“Now, Alice,” Seraphina said. “Whatever it is you are seeing, it is entirely unreal. It is not a creature. It is not a spirit. It is not anything that can harm you.” She paused. “What it is, is your own mind.”

Alice looked at her.

“You see, when the body runs a fever,” Seraphina continued. “The blood becomes overheated. This was observed and recorded by physicians long before either of us was born. When the blood is too warm, it agitates the nerves, and the nerves, which under ordinary circumstances carry messages accurately between the eyes and the brain, begin to carry them imprecisely. The brain receives a message and misreads it. It fills the gaps with things it already knows. Things it has seen before. Things it fears.” She folded her hands in her lap. “It is not unlike a magic lantern. You have seen a magic lantern?”

Alice gave the smallest possible nod.

“The image on the wall is not real,” Seraphina said. “It has no substance. You could put your hand through it and feel nothing but air. But it looks real because the light and the lens have conspired to put it there. Your mind is the lantern. The fever is the heat that powers it, and the moment the heat reduces, the image disappears.” She held the child’s gaze. “What you are seeing has no bones, Alice. It has no weight. It cannot touch you. It exists only because your blood is too warm and your nerves are doing their best under difficult circumstances.”

Alice’s brow had drawn together into a small, concentrated furrow. She was not crying. She was thinking. Seraphina could see the exact moment the fear had loosened its grip and something else had taken its place.

Seraphina pressed forward before the moment could close.

“The remedy is straightforward,” she said. “When you see the shadow, do not look away from it. Look directly at it and remind yourself of what it is. Overheated blood. Imprecise nerves. A magic lantern with no operator.” She paused. “You are the one who decides what the lantern shows, Alice. Not the fever.”

From the corner of the room she heard William shift. She did not look at him.

Alice looked at the middle distance for a moment, her small face working through something.

“The lantern has no operator,” Seraphina repeated. “None whatsoever. Let me also tell you something about fevers. I find this the most interesting...”

She did not know how long she sat there talking. Ten minutes passed, then twenty, then thirty. Seraphina dismantled the entire concept of nightmares, explaining the physiological stages of sleep, the involuntary movement of the diaphragm during dreams, and the chemical nature of the cool cloth resting on her forehead. She spoke of Isaac Newton, of the stars, and of the absolute, mathematical certainty that the morning sun would rise at precisely four minutes past five.

Slowly, the tension left Alice’s tiny limbs. Her small chest began to rise and fall. Her eyelids grew heavy, fluttering against her pale cheeks, until finally, with one last, soft sigh, her eyes shut completely. She fell into a deep sleep.

Seraphina waited for several minutes, ensuring the child’s breathing remained unbroken. Satisfied, she began to shift her weight, intending to slide quietly off the mattress and give the girl space.

But the moment she moved, she felt a restriction. She looked down. Alice’s tiny fingers had reached out in her sleep, wrapping themselves with surprising, iron-clad strength around the fabric of Seraphina’s skirt. She was holding on as if her very life depended on it.

Seraphina froze, looking up toward the corner of the room.

William was already standing by the bedside, having moved forward without making a single sound. He stared down at Alice’s sleeping form, and then scoffed. “She likes science?” he questioned in a whisper. “She is entirely asleep, and all we had to do was... bore her to sleep?”

William let out another amused huff, his gaze dropping to the tiny hand gripping her dress. “What do you want to do now? If you pull away, she will likely wake.”

Seraphina sighed softly, settling back against the pillows. “Perhaps... perhaps I shall simply spend the night here on the edge of the mattress. So that she does not wake in terror.”

William looked at her, his expression softening. “Do you want me to stay? Do you need anything?”

“No,” Seraphina replied gently, offering him a small, weary smile. “Go and retire for the night, Your Grace. You look undone, and you will be of no use to anyone if your own mind breaks down from exhaustion.”

William stayed perfectly still for a long moment, simply looking at her where she sat on the bed with the child anchored to her side. “I am grateful for this. You should know that,” he said.

“It is all right,” she whispered. “Go.”

With a final look, William dipped his head and walked out of the room, the door closing softly behind him.

Left alone in the nursery, Seraphina looked down at Alice’s peaceful face. For the past week, she had been stressing over how to copy Euphemia’s maternal tactics, believing that she had to force herself to be soft, gentle, and overflowing with emotional warmth to save a child.

But looking at the way Alice had responded to her, Seraphina realized something. Maternal affection was not a singular, uniform mold. Every child required a different frequency. She didn’t need to mimic her sister’s emotional gravity. She simply needed to find what worked specifically for Alice, and apply her own mind to it.

She leaned her head back against the bedpost, her hand resting near the little girl’s fingers. For the first time all night, the panic in her chest settled into a calm, victorious certainty.

She had found the key to the nursery.

CHAPTER NINE