The Healer (The Witch Hunter 0.5)(11)

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.





7



I keep the girl sedated with poppy.

Using a sedative is the only way to keep her from having another incident like that, the only way I can ensure that the potions I give her go down and stay down. I don’t like doing it; it seems wrong to deliberately keep someone unconscious. But I tell myself she’s too sick to know the difference, much less know what’s best for her.

Sometime the next evening, Fifer and George come in. I’m sitting in a chair at the end of the girl’s bed, reading. It’s been nearly forty-eight hours since I’ve slept, and fatigue is beginning to set in. But I don’t want to leave her, and I don’t want to sleep. I’m afraid that if I do she won’t wake up.

“How is Nicholas?” I ask, closing my book and rubbing my eyes.

“Fine,” Fifer replies. “He wanted me to tell you he’s resting, and for you not to worry about him right now.”

“Unlikely,” I say. “Does he need anything?”

“Yes. For you to make sure this girl wakes up.”

George and Fifer walk to the head of the bed and stand there a moment, staring down at her.

George glances up at me. “Is she going to die?”

“Ugh. Smells as if she already did,” Fifer replies.

“Fifer…” I start to gripe at her, but I’m too tired to bother. “George, hand me that bottle.” I gesture to the small bottle of tonic on the table, another batch of the dandelion-root-and-chicory tonic Father and I drank the night we walked here from Harrow.

“What? It’s not my fault she looks terrible,” Fifer goes on.

“Aye, she’s scrotty now, but she’s quite lovely when not covered in filth,” George says. Fifer throws him a look. “What? She is.”

“She’s doing remarkably well, considering.” I take a long draw and hand it back to him. I’m so tired I’ve almost forgotten how awful it tastes. Almost. “Jail fever—she’s lucky she didn’t die.”

“She’s lucky she has you to help her, John,” Fifer says. “No one else could go near her! Honestly, I don’t know how you stand it.”

“Since you’re so concerned with the way she smells,” I say, “you can be the one to clean her up, then.”

“Ugh.” Fifer makes a face, an exaggerated shudder.

“There’s no one else,” I tell her. “It’s not right for me to. Hastings can’t touch her; the cold would shock her, if not kill her. I’m not about to ask Father. And you know George has a horror of anything rank.”

“True enough,” George says, flopping down at the end of the bed.

“So do I!” Fifer protests.

“You just said you wanted me to make sure this girl wakes up,” I snap. “Which I’m trying to do. So if I ask you to do something that might help make that happen, I expect you to do it without a lot of argument.”

Fifer sighs. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

“Thank you.” I close my eyes and sigh, pressing my fingertips against my eyelids. “I’m sorry I snapped at you,” I add. “I’m just tired.”

“I know,” Fifer says.

“And you don’t have to do it now. She’s not strong enough for it yet anyway.”