The Healer (The Witch Hunter 0.5)(13)

“I think she’s a mistake.”





8



Slowly, Elizabeth recovers.

It’s been two weeks since she arrived. It took one week before I was confident she wouldn’t die, another before I was confident she’d wake up. George and I took turns watching her at night in case she relapsed. But now that she’s stable, it’s just George. I figure when she finally opens her eyes, it would be nice for her to see a familiar face.

As for when that will happen, it’s anyone’s guess. Father, George, and Fifer ask me several times a day. Nicholas never asks, but it’s not because he doesn’t want to know. I give them the same answer anyway: when she’s ready. There’s nothing I can do to hurry her along.

It should be soon. The signs are there: Her temperature is normal, she can breathe clearly. She’s tolerating baths well enough that I’ve sent Fifer to her room to tend to her hair. It’s still a terrible tangled mess, untouched since the day she got here. Fifer wanted to cut it off, but I refused. It’s too close to what they did to my mother and sister; too close to what they almost did to her. The idea of it makes me sick.

I’m still keeping her sedated with poppy, but I’ve reduced the dose enough to allow her to wake up while still remaining calm. I can’t risk another outburst, especially if the person she chooses to attack is Nicholas. Not to mention that poppy can cause addiction, a problem I’d like to avoid.

Time is running out, though. We need to get this girl to the seer. Veda can see only once a month, and that day is fast approaching. While Nicholas is stable for now, he’s weak. I’ve managed to lessen the severity of his symptoms, using minute doses of poison to slow the spread of them, but there’s only so much I can do. If Elizabeth doesn’t make it to Veda’s next week, I don’t think Nicholas can last another month.

I’m hunched over the table in my bedroom—which Fifer now calls the laboratory—making Nicholas’s tonic of angelica, horehound, saffron, thistle, and belladonna, plus basil to improve flavor, when the door bursts open.

“Well, she’s cleaned up,” Fifer says by way of greeting. The sleeves of her black tunic are pushed past her elbows, her face is flushed, and even her hair looks angry: red and wild and out of control.

“It couldn’t have been that bad.” I set a flask on a stand over the flame, drop in a few crushed basil leaves and a measure of water, and begin to stir.

“Say you,” Fifer replies. She flops down in a chair at the table and sighs dramatically. “It took me nearly two hours to comb out her hair. You’d think she’d never seen a brush before in her life.”

“She was in jail for a week,” I point out. “I doubt her hair was high on her list of priorities.”

“Hmph.”

“Besides the state of her hair,” I say, “what did she look like?”

“Are you asking me what she looked like in the bathtub? Naked?” Fifer smirks.

“That’s not what I mean.” I turn away from her and fiddle with the flame burning under the alembic. It doesn’t really need to be lowered, but it gives me something to do.

Fifer snorts. “She’s fine. Still too thin, of course, but that’s to be expected. The rash is gone from her arms and legs, but you can still see it on her stomach. What else? Flea bites. Disgusting. We should all burn our sheets and mattresses.…”

I turn around then. Give her a look.

“What? You want to have to delouse us, too?”

I ignore this. “Did she wake up?”

“No,” Fifer says. “Whatever you’re giving her is really keeping her out.”

“Tincture of poppy. Papaver somniferum, five drams distilled in one pitcher of alcohol at eighty per centum, three extractions for a resultant thirty-grain yield.”

“You’re the most interesting boy I’ve ever known.”

I laugh.

Fifer raises her eyebrows. “You’re in a good mood.”

I shrug. “Not really.”

“I don’t mean just now.” She leans forward in her chair. Studies me, her green eyes narrowing. “You’ve been in a good mood ever since that girl got here. Never mind the fact you haven’t slept at all, that you’re working overtime on two patients, or that you camped out in her room for days with no sleep, and…oh. I think I see what’s going on.” She smirks. “A little lust stirring in the reluctant John Raleigh?”

“That’s ridiculous,” I say, a bit too loudly. “She’s a patient. She’s probably a Persecutor. She probably belongs to someone else. I don’t even know her. And she’s a patient.”

“Yes, you said that,” Fifer replies. “But that was an awfully robust protest you just gave there. I was joking, but now I’m thinking I might be on to something.” She grins. “You fancy her.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I say again.

“I mean, I understand,” she continues. “George was right. She is pretty. You can really tell now that all the filth is gone. Nice eyes. Excellent hair, I see why you didn’t want me to cut it. And she has cute freckles. Wish mine were like that, just on my nose instead of everywhere.…” Fifer presses her palms to her cheeks and scowls.