"I want you to stay here," Steven told her as he stood at the bureau, arranging his tie. He'd already bathed, and he was wearing a fresh suit. Emma sat up in bed, a protest on her lips, but the look in Steven's eyes silenced her. She lay down again, her arms folded. "I'm not sick," she said petulantly, and before she could go on, a wave of nausea swept over her and sent her scrambling for the basin. Steven held her hair as she vomited, and he brought her a cold cloth and water to rinse her mouth when she was through. While the ever-vigilant Jubal carried the basin out, he put his wife back in bed and bent to kiss her forehead. "I don't have the plague, Steven," Emma insisted fitfully. "I'm just pregnant, probably. You need me at the trial--" "I need to know you're all right," Steven corrected, brushing her hair back from her face. "Please, Emma. If you love me, stay here. Don't make me worry about you." Her eyes filled with tears as she looked up at him. "I love you so much, Steven." "And I love you," he answered. He kissed her again, and then he was gone. Although"