The Healer (The Witch Hunter 0.5)(10)

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.