Vorenus is stubborn as an ox, especially when he has something to live for, and it’s not like Pullo missed the way he looked at his daughters the first time they appeared at his bedside.
But somehow, it’s still surprising when Vorena the Elder stumbles out the door of his room without looking where she’s going and bumps right into Pullo,
cushioned by the armful of sheets she’s holding.
She looks up at him, blank with shock, and for a moment he assumes the obvious: Vorenus has died.
He’s about to squeeze her hand and tell her he’ll take care of everything, when she opens her mouth.
“He’s going to live,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “I think he’s going to live.”
And he does. The fever breaks. He eats broth, and then soup, and then bread. He demands that Pullo help him sit up, and then stand and take a few halting steps around the room.
At first, Pullo isn’t sure whether the elder Vorena will stay in the house: it’s so much less complicated to forgive a man on his deathbed, and for the first few days,
she seems to take the recovery as a sort of catastrophe in itself.
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