Chapter 4 : First Counterattack

The morning after Prince Edward''s visit found Alexandre in a state of restless energy. The Prince''s offer—protection, influence, friendship—hung in the air like a promise, or a threat. He had accepted, but he knew that acceptance was only the beginning. Now he had to prove himself worthy of that protection. He had to show that he was more than just a pretty face, more than just a desperate nobleman clinging to royal favor.

He found his opportunity in the nursery wing, where his younger sister, Sophie, lay ill.

He hadn''t thought much about Sophie in his previous life. She had been seven years younger than him, a quiet, bookish girl who had faded into the background of the family''s drama. She had died young, of a fever that the doctors couldn''t cure. He remembered the funeral—a small, sad affair, overshadowed by the family''s mounting debts and declining fortunes. He remembered feeling a vague regret, but mostly relief that it wasn''t him in the coffin.

Now, as he stood in the doorway of her room, he felt a surge of guilt so sharp it took his breath away.

Sophie was twelve years old, small for her age, with the same golden hair as the rest of the family, but hers was fine and straight, like spun silk. She lay in a large bed, her face pale against the white pillows, her breathing shallow and rapid. A maid sat by the bedside, her expression one of weary resignation.

"Master Alexandre," the maid said, rising quickly. "I didn''t expect—"

"How is she?" Alexandre asked, his eyes fixed on his sister.

"No better, sir. The doctor was here yesterday. He said... he said there''s nothing more to be done. That we must pray for a miracle."

Alexandre moved to the bedside, his mind working. In his previous life, he had studied medicine briefly—a passing interest that had become a necessity when he found himself imprisoned and injured. He had learned about fevers, about infections, about the body''s desperate fight for survival. He had learned that sometimes, what looked like a death sentence was just a puzzle waiting to be solved.

"Leave us," he said to the maid.

"But sir—"

"Leave us," he repeated, his voice firm but not unkind. "I''ll call if I need you."

When they were alone, Alexandre sat on the edge of the bed. Sophie''s eyes fluttered open, glassy with fever. "Alexandre?" she whispered, her voice thin and weak.

"I''m here, Sophie," he said, taking her hand. Her skin was hot and dry, her pulse rapid and thready beneath his fingers. "Tell me how you feel."

"Hot," she said. "And cold. And my head hurts. And my throat..."

He leaned closer, examining her. Her throat was red and swollen. Her tongue was coated with a white film. And there, on her neck, just below her ear, he saw it—a small, hard lump. A swollen lymph node.

In his previous life, he had seen this before. Not in Sophie, but in other prisoners. A fever that came on suddenly, with sore throat, headache, swollen glands. They had called it "gaol fever" or "ship fever," but he knew it by its modern name: typhus. Or something very like it.

"Sophie," he said, his voice gentle. "I''m going to help you. But you have to trust me. Can you do that?"

She nodded, her eyes wide and trusting. In that moment, Alexandre felt a surge of protectiveness so fierce it startled him. This was his sister. His blood. And he had let her die once. He would not let it happen again.

He called for the maid and gave her a list of instructions. Clean linens. Cool water. Vinegar for compresses. Honey and lemon for her throat. And most importantly, he sent for the family''s apothecary with a specific list of herbs: willow bark for the fever, sage for the throat, chamomile to help her sleep.

The maid looked at him as if he had grown a second head. "But sir, the doctor said—"

"The doctor is wrong," Alexandre said, and there was an authority in his voice that brooked no argument. "Do as I say. Now."

As the maid hurried away, Alexandre turned back to his sister. He dipped a cloth in the basin of cool water and began to bathe her face, her neck, her arms. The physical contact was intimate in a way he hadn''t expected—the feel of her fragile skin beneath his hands, the way she leaned into his touch, the trust in her eyes.

"You''re different," she whispered as he worked.

"Am I?"

"You used to ignore me. You used to act like I wasn''t there."

The words cut deeper than she could know. "I was a fool," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I''m sorry, Sophie. I''m so sorry."

She reached up, her small hand touching his cheek. "It''s all right. You''re here now."

For the next two days, Alexandre barely left Sophie''s side. He supervised her care, adjusting treatments as needed, watching for signs of improvement or decline. He slept in a chair by her bed, waking at every sound, every change in her breathing.

His father came to see him on the second day, his expression a mixture of concern and confusion. "Alexandre, what are you doing? The doctor—"

"The doctor gave up on her," Alexandre said, not looking up from where he was preparing a poultice for Sophie''s throat. "I won''t."

"But where did you learn this? This... medicine?"

Alexandre''s hands stilled. This was the moment he had been dreading. The moment when his knowledge would raise questions he couldn''t answer. "I read," he said finally, which was true, in a way. "And I observed. And I thought. That''s all medicine is, Father. Observation and thought."

The Comte watched him for a long moment, his eyes searching. "You''ve changed," he said finally, echoing Sophie''s words. "The illness... it changed you."

"Yes," Alexandre agreed. "It showed me what''s important."

On the third day, Sophie''s fever broke. She woke in the early hours of the morning, her skin cool to the touch, her breathing deep and even. She opened her eyes and smiled at him, a real smile, not the glassy, feverish expression of the past days.

"Alexandre," she said, her voice stronger. "I''m hungry."

It was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard.

He helped her sit up, propping pillows behind her, then called for broth and bread. As she ate, slowly at first, then with more enthusiasm, he felt a weight lift from his shoulders. She would live. He had saved her.

Word spread quickly through the household. The young master, who had been at death''s door himself just weeks before, had saved his sister when the doctors had given up. It was a miracle, some said. It was witchcraft, others whispered. But most saw it for what it was: a sign that Alexandre de Laval was not the weak, ineffectual heir they had thought him to be.

His father came to him that evening, his expression unreadable. "She''s better," he said, not a question.

"She is," Alexandre confirmed.

"How did you know what to do?"

"I paid attention," Alexandre said, which was both true and not true. "I remembered things I''d read. I put pieces together."

The Comte was silent for a long moment. Then he did something Alexandre had never seen him do before: he embraced him. It was awkward, stiff, the embrace of a man not used to showing affection, but it was genuine.

"Thank you," the Comte said, his voice rough with emotion. "Thank you for saving her."

In that moment, Alexandre felt something shift between them. The distrust, the disappointment, the unspoken criticism—it was still there, but now there was something else too. Respect. Gratitude. Trust.

It was a small victory, but an important one. He had proven himself to his family. He had shown that he had value beyond his name, beyond his connections. He had shown that he could be relied upon.

As he left Sophie''s room that night, he felt a sense of purpose he hadn''t felt since his rebirth. This was why he was here. Not just for revenge, not just for survival, but for this—for the chance to make things right. To save the people he had failed in his previous life.

He walked through the quiet corridors of the château, his mind already turning to the next challenge. The royal celebration was approaching. Prince Edward''s protection was secured, at least for now. His family''s trust was beginning to be earned.

But there was still so much to do. The debts. The Montro threat. The business he needed to start if they were to have any hope of financial recovery.

And somewhere, in the back of his mind, a question lingered: What other knowledge did he have from his previous life? What other miracles could he perform?

But for now, he was content with this one. His sister was alive. His family was beginning to see him as something more than a disappointment.

It was a start. And in this new life, sometimes a start was all you needed.