The Healer (The Witch Hunter 0.5)(9)

“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.





6



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.