One day, I came to her chambers with her morning toast and soft boiled eggs, but she had not sat herself up in her bed as she usually did. When I walked around the other side of the bed to address her, the flowers that usually filled her vase had been strewn across the floor. The vase was tipped precariously next to the bed, leaning on a coverlet that had fallen off the side and puddled on the floor. One intake of breath filled my nostrils with the pungent scent of bile. I hurriedly moved the vase before it fell over, realizing it was the container that was quickly filling the room with the stench, and reached out to touch what I was sure was going to be a fevered forehead. Imagine my surprise when she felt cool to the touch. Unsure of what else to do, I shook her gently awake.
“Milady, are you ill?”
“I…have taken ill. Tell me, what is that…forsaken…smell?”
“Begging your pardon, but I believe that is your stomach you smell.”
“No…is that…eg-“ And before she could finish, she had lost her stomach again. This time, on the coverlet.