The Healer (The Witch Hunter 0.5)(14)

“I didn’t notice.”

“Plus she worked in the kitchen—the palace kitchen, no less—so you know she can cook. And she has a filthy mouth, so it wouldn’t bother her to hear the words that come out of yours.”

“You taught me half those words,” I remind her.

Fifer laughs. “And, oh. Wouldn’t I love to see the look on Chime’s face if you showed up with this girl somewhere! You know what she’s telling everyone, right?” Fifer tsks, her amusement already turned to disgust. “That the two of you got together at Winter’s Night last year. That you got along brilliantly, ugh. That you kissed all night—also ugh—and you’ve been writing ever since.”

I was out of my mind drunk on wine and ale and God knows what else at that party and didn’t remember what happened, at least not until Chime’s letters started showing up. I’m reminded of it again: the scented white parchment sealed with red wax in the shape of a heart, at home on my desk.

“I don’t know where you hear these things.”

“Lark told me.”

I shake my head again.

“And if Chime found out you preferred a scullery maid—”

“I don’t prefer anything. I don’t care that she’s a maid.”

“—to the only daughter and sole heir of Lord Fitzroy Cranbourne Calthorpe-Gough, third earl of Abbey, imagine the fit she’d pitch!” Fifer claps her hands, gleeful. “Oh, please can I tell someone?”

“Tell someone what? There’s nothing to tell.”

She waves it off. “Just Lark, then. She’s not a gossip but she’s also not that smart. She and Chime will talk, things will conveniently slip out, and—”

I point to the door. “Go.”

“All right, all right.” Fifer holds up her hands, then backs to the door, pausing for a moment on the threshold. “You know, you can say whatever you want,” she says. “But for all that protesting you just did about not fancying her, you never once said it wasn’t true.” She winks at me and flounces out of the room.





9



Another pounding on my door. Blood of Christ. I wish people would just stop banging and learn to knock. Or maybe not knock at all, since it’s the middle of the goddamned night.

I roll out of bed, stagger to the door. It’s George.

“She’s awake.”

His words wake me like a splash of ice water to the face.

“She did? I mean, she is? Is she okay? What did she say?”

George smirks. “She fell out of bed, then wanted to know what I was doing there. Guess she remembered who I was. Anyway. I’m going to get Nicholas. Why not go see her for yourself? Not like you need an excuse.” Another smirk—damned Fifer, she’s no doubt filled George’s head with her accusations—then he shuts the door.

I go to my desk, light the flame under the alembic, then quickly prepare the mixture I’ve been making for her all week. Her potions are simple—or at least simpler—than Nicholas’s. I haven’t had to change them much, just adding tinctures to help her gain back some weight. She seems to be partial to the sweeter ones I give her in the mornings.

Not that I’ve noticed.

My stomach squirms with anxiety, though I don’t know why. I’ve seen her every day for two weeks. I cross the hall to her room, give the door a little rap. George opens it.

Elizabeth is sitting on the bed, watching me as I walk into the room. Everything about her is pale. Her shift, her hair, her skin. But her eyes are blue, just as I thought—a bright, clear blue, like a summer sky. I’ve spent days by her side, caring for her, feeding her potions; for Christ’s sake, I’ve even seen her naked. But she’s looking at me as though she’s never seen me before. It startles me a bit to realize it: She hasn’t ever seen me before.

“Elizabeth, this is John Raleigh, our healer,” Nicholas says.

She frowns a little, and I can almost see the thoughts flitting across her eyes. She wants to know if I’m the one who changed her, who bathed her. What’s in the goblet I’m holding in my hand.

“It’s angelica and burdock,” I say, for something to say.

She shrugs, unimpressed.

“It’s just a blood purifier. Plus something to help your stomach. That’s all.” I pause for her to say something, but she doesn’t. So I keep going. “Well, I added in a little cucumber for your fever, some burnet and elm for your cough. A bit of oat for your rash. Mugwort, too, because you have fleas. And a couple drops of poppy, just to help you relax. But that really is it. I swear.”

Shut up, John.

I smile and offer her the cup again. When she refuses to take it—again—I say, “If I wanted to harm you, I wouldn’t have given you anything at all. You’ve been drinking it since you got here.”

She doesn’t trust me, that much is clear. She looks at George then, as if he is to answer for her, as if she trusts him instead. Something about that bothers me.

George nods.

Elizabeth reaches out, grabs the cup from my hand, and knocks it back in one swallow. Watching her sends a flurry of random thoughts through my head. The sound of her scream. The sight of her in the bathtub, with nothing but a wet blanket to cover her. The way she swore at me, called me a goddamned swivving pisser whoreson. The scent of jasmine in her bathwater. The way she punched me, then kicked me, then fell asleep in my arms. The color of her hair. Her freckles.