The Healer (3 page)

A pounding noise, loud and insistent, breaks through my slumber. I jerk awake, my heart racing. I’m still sitting at the table, a book under my cheek. For a brief moment, I forget where I am.

The door pushes open and it’s Fifer.

“What are you doing?” she demands. “I’ve been knocking for ages.”

I rub my face. “Why don’t you people just come in instead of hammering the door down? What are you doing here, anyway? What time is it?” A glance out the window tells me it’s just before dawn.

“There’s a problem.”

I’m on my feet in an instant.

“What is it? Is it Nicholas? What did he say? Never mind. Let me get dressed and I’ll go to him myself—”

“It’s not Nicholas,” Fifer says. “It’s Veda. She started trailing.”

“Trailing?” My stomach twists unpleasantly. If a seer trails—has visions outside her prescribed rituals—it’s almost always a bad sign. Because it almost always precedes someone’s death.

She nods. “We got a letter from Avis a few hours ago. Veda’s saying we have the wrong person. That it’s not that hearth witch in Seven Sisters. It’s the girl in the palace.”

“All right,” I say. “So it’s the girl in the palace. We’ll send George to get her, and—”

“That’s what we did,” Fifer says. “Nicholas sent a letter, but George wrote back and said she’s been arrested.”

“Arrested?
God’s nails
,” I hiss. “Why? What happened?”

“George said she was accused of witchcraft. They found some herbs on her.” Fifer’s face is white, frightened. “She’s at Fleet. And she’s scheduled to burn. Tomorrow.”

And there it is. Thundering heart. A wave of nausea. A rush of dizziness. I lunge from the table, my chair skittering out from under me and toppling to the floor. Rush for the window, push it open, and breathe.

In for four.

Hold for four.

Out for four…

“Nicholas sent for George straightaway. He’s already here,” Fifer goes on. “And now Nicholas is going to go and get her.”

This—the shock of hearing this, what Nicholas plans to do—snaps me out of my daze. I turn from the window and bolt out the door. I don’t even have a shirt on. Or shoes.

“Where are you going?” Fifer chases me down the hallway toward the stairs.

“To stop him,” I say. “He can’t do this, he’ll get caught—”

“John.” The tone in her voice tells me what she’s going to say next, even before she says it. I freeze in my tracks. “He’s already gone.”

I push my hands through my hair and groan. Damned foolish, reckless old man. If he’s captured, he’ll be tried, tortured, killed—if his curse doesn’t kill him first. Fifer will lose the only family she has left, my father the only savior he has left. It’ll be the end of the Reformist movement as we know it, turned into a militaristic regime headed by an overzealous councilman—someone like Gareth Fish, who turned to politics instead of grief after his son’s death—conscripting half of Harrow into an army to fight a battle that can’t be won, a battle we’re already losing but one in which we still stand to lose more.

“Get dressed,” Fifer says, breaking into my thoughts. “Meet me downstairs. We’ll wait for him to come back. It’s all we can do.”

We wait in the sitting room, Father at the fireplace, Fifer, George, and I at the windows, staring out at the rosy dawn sky. None of us speaks, though I can hear Hastings rattling trays behind us, bringing in tea and breakfast things that none of us eats.

“What’s taking him so long?” Fifer paces the floor. Back and forth, back and forth. “You don’t think he got caught, do you? Oh God, he got caught—”

“He didn’t get caught,” Father and I say in unison, though neither of us knows if that’s true. “And he’ll be fine,” I add, though I don’t know if that’s true, either.

“John is right, Fifer.” Father turns from the mantel to face us. He’s worried. I can see it in his bloodshot eyes, his unshaven jaw. “He’ll be fine. But if he’s not back by the time the sun clears the horizon, I’ll go after him.”

George drums his fingers against the diamond-shaped blue windowpane. “I still can’t believe it’s her,” he says to no one in particular.

“Yes, you said that,” Fifer retorts. “She’s tiny, she’s funny, she’s secretive.” She’s getting angrier by the second, that spring storm brewing again. She’ll be throwing things before long. “She’s also a bloody pain, getting herself arrested like this. She’s meant to help Nicholas, not lead him into prison. Fleet of all places, he’s liable to get caught—”

“No one’s getting caught,” Father says.

“I mean, you didn’t see her,” George continues, seemingly oblivious to Fifer’s agitation and Father’s note of warning. “She was such a mess; all alone, too. It was strange. Why wouldn’t a girl like that have friends? And she doesn’t. Did I tell you she invited me to the king’s Yuletide masque?”

This gets Fifer’s attention.

“She invited you to a masque?” Her agitation turns quickly to amusement. “Why?”

George shrugs. “Because of my looks and my charm, naturally. I’ve noticed you looking at me, too. It’s all right. I have that effect on people.”

Fifer opens her mouth to reply, then lets out a gasp. “There they are.”

Father flings himself away from the fireplace, rushes to the door, and throws it open. Emerging from the trees is Nicholas, in a black cloak on an all-black horse, a tiny figure slumped against him.

George, Fifer, and I get to the door just as Father reaches them. He pulls the girl gently from the saddle and takes her into his arms. Nicholas climbs off and I watch him carefully, breathing a small sigh of relief. He’s alive; he appears to be fine. But as they walk through the door, my breath sticks in my throat as I see the condition the girl is in.

She’s going to die.

She’s trembling in Father’s arms, shaking like someone in the throes of death. Her skin is pale, almost white; even her lips are white. Her forehead is glistening with sweat. And her dress,
blood of Christ
. It’s wet and filthy, caked in mud and hay and God knows what else. She smells like piss and vomit and terror, and her blond hair—long, dirty, tangled, and nearly matted in places—looks so familiar, so much like theirs that I freeze, a roar of blood rushing to my head and drowning everything out, it happens again.

In for four.

Hold for four.

Out for
—

“John.” Fifer’s voice snaps through the haze.

“Baptisia root,” I say a bit too loudly. “She’s got a fever and that’ll help to bring her temperature down. Only, I don’t have a tincture ready so I’ll have to prepare one—”

“Hastings can do it,” Nicholas says. An instant later I feel a blast of cold and a puff of air in my ear, that uncomfortable sensation that comes with a ghost trying to communicate. In it I hear the echo of a question.
How?

“One ounce in two quarts of water, ten minutes to steep,” I tell him. “Take it off the flame at eight. While that’s going, prepare her a bath. Cool water, but not too cold. I don’t want her going into shock.” I think a moment. “Set out the charcoal as well. It’s concentrated so it’ll have to be distilled, but I need her to have it if I expect her to keep anything down.”

There’s another blast of air in my ear, an agreement. Then it’s gone.

I turn to Nicholas. “How long has she been unconscious? Was she like this when you found her? Has she been tortured?”

Nicholas shakes his head. “She’s been like this since we left Fleet. When I found her she was weak but able to talk, no outward signs of torture. In fact, she fought me when I first tried to take her. Tried to run, even threw me a punch.”

“She did?” I look at her. It’s hard to tell how tall she is but I suspect not very, and she’s more than a little thin. I wonder where she found the strength—or the courage—to attack a man Nicholas’s size.

Nicholas nods.

“That’s good, right?” George says from behind me. “If she’s got the energy to do that, she can’t be that bad off, can she?”

I don’t reply. Sometimes a surge of strength can mean someone is recovering. But, more often, that surge of strength is nothing more than a last gasp.

I press my fingers against her neck to feel for her pulse. It’s weak and sluggish, and I can hear her chest whistling as she tries to breathe. Up close like this I can see a rash on her neck, arms, and chest, mixed with a pitiable number of flea bites.

“Take her upstairs,” I tell Father. “Fifer, help Hastings undress her and get her into the bath. Get her some of your things to wear. And when you get her clothes off, give them to Hastings to burn. She’s got fleas and I don’t want them to spread. George, wait for me in my room. I’ll need your help.”

Father carries the girl up the stairs, Fifer and George on his heels.

I turn to Nicholas. He’s sitting now, and as soon as the others pass out of sight he lowers his head into his hands.

“Are you all right?” I walk to him, touch my hand to his forehead, hold his wrist. His skin is cool but his pulse is racing.

“I will be, now. Please, John. Go. Tend to her. She needs your help more than I do at the moment.”

I hesitate. Nicholas is my primary concern right now, but if this girl truly is the only one who can help him—which I doubt even more after seeing her—then she should be my primary concern as well.

Upstairs, it’s chaos.

The girl is lying facedown on the bed. Head tilted to the side, her filthy dress unbuttoned halfway down her back. Fifer stands beside her, grasping the sleeve of her dress and trying to yank it down, cursing like mad.

There’s a bathtub beside the fireplace, already full. I touch my finger to the water. It’s the perfect temperature, as I knew it would be. Hastings has added some sort of perfume to the water, jasmine by the scent of it. A nice touch, but utterly unnecessary. I don’t care about this girl being clean right now so much as cool.

Father hovers by the door, doing nothing.

“Why are you just standing there?” I say. “You could help Fifer, you know.”

“Undress a girl?” Father looks shocked. “Without a lady present?”

“Excuse me,” Fifer snaps.

“It’s hardly the time for decorum,” I tell him. “Where is Hastings?”

“Preparing your alembic.”

“Where is George, then?”

“Waiting for you in your room, as you ordered.”

I let out a stream of obscenities. “Why didn’t you call him in? He won’t care about undressing a girl. I don’t have time for this.”

“I’ll get him now,” Father says.

“Never mind.” I push past him to the bed. “I’ll do it.”

“John, I’m not sure…” Father begins.

I shoot him a look and he quiets.

I step up to the bed. Immediately, I see Fifer’s trouble. She’s trying to undress this poor girl without touching her. She’s got her sleeve pulled over one hand so she doesn’t have to make direct contact with the girl’s skin, the other hand pinching her nose shut.

“It might help if you used two hands.” I reach for the girl, quickly unbuttoning the back of her dress. Then I roll her over to her back as gently as I can.

“I can’t stand it. She smells awful, John.”

I grit my teeth. “Grab that blanket and drape it over her top half.”

This, at least, Fifer can manage.

I slip one sleeve from the girl’s shoulder, then the other, a bit difficult to do with the blanket covering her. I ease her dress down to her waist, then reach for the hem of the skirt.

“I’m going to take off the whole thing. Fifer, hold the blanket tight while I pull.”

After a bit of tugging, I slide the dress off, then turn back to the girl. She hasn’t moved, hasn’t stirred. She lies across the mattress, her mouth slightly open, head tilted to the side. Under the blanket like that she could be half asleep instead of half dead. I can just make out a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

I feel a twinge of something; pity, I suppose. I reach down, pick her up, and carry her to the bath. She can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds. I slide her into the water, averting my gaze as the blanket floats up and away from her naked body.

I turn to Fifer. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Less. Fourteen. Get her out in ten and have her dressed by the time I come back. Father, you can wait in the hallway.” Before either of them can argue, I’m out the door, slamming it behind me.

Inside my room, George hovers over the array of steaming glass flasks, looking from one to the other as if he’s afraid they might explode.

“Wish I could help, mate, but I’m not sure what to do.…”

“Grab that.” I motion to an empty goblet lying on the table. Then I take the charcoal—helpfully laid out by Hastings—and measure two grains of it into a clean flask. Using a pair of tongs, I lift the second flask with the baptisia root from the stand and pour it over the charcoal.

There’s a hissing and a billow of smoke, then the potion turns purple, as it should. It’s got a strong, acidic scent and it won’t taste pleasant, not without an infusion of another, sweeter herb. But I don’t have time. I swirl the mixture once, twice, then gesture for the goblet. George holds it out, and I carefully pour the mixture inside.

A quick glance at the clock on the table shows it’s been exactly fourteen minutes.

I dash back to the other room, directly across the hall from mine, George behind me. I’m pleased to find the girl lying on the bed, fully clothed but still damp, and still reeking of prison.

“I did the best I could,” Fifer says. “She started shivering before I could really clean her off, so Peter and I got her out. You said not to let her get cold.”

“It’s fine,” I say. “We’ll get to that later.”

If there is a later.

I touch my hand to the girl’s forehead, her cheek. She’s still burning up and her breathing is labored. I’ve got to get this potion down her, and fast.

I slip my hand under her neck, raise her up to sitting. Her head lolls back so I slide my hand up to hold it. It’s awkward, leaning over her like this, so I move onto the bed next to her and bring the goblet to her lips.

That’s when it happens.

The girl screams once, twice, an earsplitting shriek. Snatches the goblet out of my hand, potion sloshing everywhere. I leap to my feet and she’s after me in a second: pushing me with her free hand, hitting my arms, my chest, smacking my face. I reach for her but she’s too fast, rearing back and knocking me over the head with the goblet, spilling what’s left inside over my head.

“Grab her before she hurts herself,” I shout. I snatch her wrists, Father takes her ankles, and together we wrestle her back to the bed. She’s still thrashing, kicking, screaming. Her skin is slippery and damp and her shift slips up, halfway up her legs now. Father makes the mistake of letting go, and the girl bends back one leg to kick him. But she misses him and kicks me instead, hard, in the gut.

I stumble away from the bed, bump into Fifer, and the pair of us hit the floor in a heap. The girl’s shrieks give way to curses. She lets out a stream of them so fierce and foul that I almost start to laugh.

The bedroom door slams open then and a goblet comes hurtling toward me, a short copper one. By the astringent scent I can tell it’s full of more potion. I get to my feet and snatch it from the air, thrusting it into Fifer’s hands.

“Hold this,” I say. “I’ll grab her, and you give it to her when I tell you to.”

Fifer nods, eyes wide, and the both of us start for the girl again. She’s turned on Father now, lashing out at him, striking him with blows he doesn’t seem to have the heart to deflect. I wince as she hauls off and smacks him across the face, so hard she leaves a red handprint on his stubbled cheek.

I step in front of Father, reach for the girl’s arm. She snatches it away, raising it as if she’s going to strike me, too. I steel myself for the hit but it never comes; instead, she lets out a gasp, her eyes rolling back into her head as she loses consciousness again.

I lunge forward and catch her in my arms before she hits the floor. She collapses into me, her hair spilling into my face, her limbs tangled up in mine. Gently, I lower her to the floor, holding her as I might a child.

“Do it.” I turn to Fifer. “Give the potion to her now.”

Fifer drops to her knees beside me. I tilt the girl’s head up and Fifer tips the goblet to her lips. She drinks it all without protest, then goes terribly still. I feel a twist of fear. The potion, it should have a stirring effect, at least a temporary one. She should open her eyes, say something, do something.

Finally, she does. She rolls to her side, twisting her body further into mine. Reaches for the hem of my shirt, smoothing her cheek across the fabric once, twice, as if it were a pillow. Then, with no more fanfare than a sigh, she falls asleep.

I glance at Fifer, my father, George. They’re watching her, us, their faces reflecting the same mix of bewilderment and amusement I feel. And when I look back down at the girl—at her cheek pressed against my chest, my shirt fisted in her hand, her hair draped over my arm—I do something I haven’t done in a long time. I start to laugh.