A week? When had he first fallen ill? Cesare couldn't pinpoint the day exactly, but the days were passing as miserably as they could, and .. perhaps it was almost over. If her estimation was correct. Maybe this was the worst and with her hand, and whatever care God could spare for a Borgia, he would see it through. And maybe she was wrong and he would die in this bed. Whatever the case, Cesare would survive it or he would not.
There was no use in worrying or wondering. What would be would be.
But what twisted fate, it seemed, to lie here in this bed as perfectly invalid as an old man tended to by a young doe of a thing. But her kindness was gentle, and her words as much the truth as she could spare in all likelihood. A woman physician. How bizarre a thing but the only one to come at his call. He dragged himself up to sitting--or at least a heavy lean against the headboard--at her insistence, and with her help, then took the glass of water, holding it with an unsteady hand.
"You're a saint," he said, and took a drink of the water. It went down smoothly, for now. "Or are you a witch? Where have they taught you these things?" of course it didn't matter, all that did was that she could. And was. "Who are you, a woman physic?" He cradled the glass against his chest and closed his eyes heavily, face contorting in a grimace then slowly easing. "What is killing me?"