Even with wearing gloves on the way to the church, her hand is still cool, or maybe she just thinks it is when he skin makes contact with his. Kate pauses, brow furrowing with concern. It's warm to the touch, like a fever taking hold — she was worried about him joining her to the church when he didn't seem right, but—

with a pang, she wishes Harry Goodsir was still here. If the Lieutenant's sick, then—

"You... feel kinda warm." she flips her hand, pressing her palm to his forehead to see if there's any difference. In part, she doesn't want to say the words outloud. Being sick in this place is far more dangerous. "I think you—"

(She doesn't hear it. Too focused on the man before her, too tightly wound with worry.)

But he's tipping forwards into her and she inhales sharply, quickly moving to catch him and keep him steady and upright. She pulls her hand from his forehead and braces his shoulders.

"Lieutenant—!" she breathes, her voice tight. There's a beat, her voice softens a little. "Edward?"

This isn't right.

"We need to go home. You need to rest, and— and I can make you something to eat. Maybe some soup? Or there's still venison stew left."