Chapter 4
A frantic pounding ripped Rose from the grips of another nightmare. Rain chattered on the thatching. She inhaled sharply, peat smoke choking her. The small smoke hole in the thatching had been stopped up to keep the rain out and the warmth in.
The blacksmith stumbled out of bed and threw the door open.
“Is the healer still here?” a desperate voice asked.
Rose pushed herself up. “Aye, I am.”
A boy darted under the blacksmith’s arm. “You must come! My sister is dying!”
Rose had not bothered to undress, so she slipped on her shoes, threw her arisaid over her head, grabbed her wooden box, and followed the boy into the rain.
He led her to a cottage at the edge of the small village.
The door opened immediately at their knock.
A painfully thin woman stood there, her damp, hollowed eyes passing over Rose and the boy, scanning the emptiness behind them.
Her face fell when she realized they were alone.
“Where’s the MacKay?” she asked.
“He won’t come,” the boy said.
Rose gritted her teeth. Some healer. Had he not said to her, I certainly cannot go hieing off to heal strangers when people I know are in need?
And here, one of his own people was dying and he couldn’t trouble himself.
For the first time she began to believe that perhaps his miraculous healing was nothing more than fakery.
She put her anger aside and placed her hands on the woman’s shoulders. “Lord Strathwick might not be here, but I will do my best for your child.”
The woman shook her head, hands over her mouth, as if holding back a scream. She pulled away from Rose and dashed out into the storm.
The boy looked after his mother morosely. Water dripped from the dark hair plastered to his head, making tracks down his cheeks. “She’ll be back.”
“Where is she going?”
“To stand outside the castle and scream. We all do that.”
“Does it work?” Rose remembered Tadhg’s story about Betty’s husband, how he’d stood outside the castle and threatened to murder Strathwick if he didn’t come heal his wife.
“Sometimes.” The boy took Rose’s hand and led her to the back of the cottage. A small child lay upon the large bed, plaids and furs smothering her. He gazed at his sister with large, worried eyes. “Her name is Ailis. She’s six.”
Rose pulled most of the coverings off and tossed them aside. Ailis was a small girl with a mop of dirty blond hair curling around her face. She was very red, her skin alarmingly hot to the touch, and clear fluid drained from her nostrils. Every inhalation rattled through her narrow chest.
Rose sat on the bed, closed her eyes, and took several deep breaths.
Her heart twisted with the knowledge that this was most likely an ailment she could not help, but she refused to dwell on that until she knew for certain.
She forced everything else from her mind—the rain, her father, Strathwick, Dumhnull—and the calm settled over her.
Sometimes it was difficult to do, but when the situation was urgent, as this was, no matter how upset or anxious she was, she could always focus quickly.
The magic curled inside her, twisting and turning like a serpent.
She opened her eyes and the world was different.
She placed her hands just over the child’s head, cupping it but not touching it.
The color around her hands was a pale yellow overlaid with a vivid angry red from the child’s fever.
She continued over the face to the throat, where she paused.
A blackness clouded the throat. She continued down the rest of the body and saw nothing else.
She returned to the throat to examine it now with her eyes, rather than magic.
The throat was swollen beneath the jaw. Rose pressed on it and the child moaned fretfully.
Rose motioned the hovering boy to fetch her box.
He moved quickly, setting it on the bed beside her.
She found her glass and a candle. She bade him to light it at the fireplace.
“I need you to hold this near her mouth so I can see.”
He nodded and did as she bid. Rose opened the child’s mouth.
When she moved close, a sickly sweet odor assailed her, sending her back to her box to tie a handkerchief around her face and nose.
Thus protected, she peered inside the child’s mouth, motioning to the boy several times to move the candle about so she could view it from different angles.
Then she took her glass and peered through it, using the base of a spoon to depress Ailis’s tongue.
She saw it then, the thick gray membrane spanning the back of the swollen throat.
Her heart contracted with the knowledge that this small, sweet girl would probably die and there was little she could do to prevent that eventuality.
She composed her expression, then shooed the boy away. “Stay back, lad. No need for you to get ill, too.”
“My name is Lucas and I want to help my sister.”
Rose forced a smile and squeezed his thin wrist. “You’ve been a great help to us both, but I need you to stay away now, aye?”
He nodded, large dark eyes grave, and backed away to crouch in the shadows and ashes beside the hearth.
Rose sat on the bed, gazing at the child.
Bull throat. She quickly scanned her memory for possible remedies, but defeat settled hard on her shoulders as she realized there was nothing she could do but attempt to make the child comfortable.
It was the curse of her hands, to show her what was wrong, even when she could do nothing.
If it was a cancer or a wound—even a festering one—there was much Rose could do, but with an illness like Ailis’s Rose was as helpless as any other healer.
She could try to bring the fever down and ease her patient’s discomfort, but beyond that, it was in God’s hands.
The magic still constricted her chest, curling down to knot uselessly in the pit of her belly.
She closed her eyes and willed it away before it made her sick and weak.
When the mother returned Rose was boiling water at the fireplace for an infusion. The mother was filthy, mud splattered her skirts, her coarse gown soaked, her hair straggling around her face. Her eyes were empty. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her child.
“How long has she been like this?” Rose asked softly.
“Last night she said her throat hurt, but she seemed fine today. Then…then this…” The woman’s voice was dull. Her empty gaze met Rose’s. “What’s wrong with her?”
Rose licked her lips. “Morbus suffocus—bull throat. I’ve seen it before.”
“Bull throat…” The woman looked back at her daughter, her eyes wide with horror. “Will she die?”
Rose bit her lip. “I don’t know.” It was a lie, but Rose couldn’t take away the mother’s hope, especially when in some part of her heart she had not yet released hope.
But the fact was, Ailis would most likely die.
Certainly people pulled through even the direst illnesses, but rarely children as small and frail as Ailis.
The last person she’d seen with bull throat had suffocated—a man, hale and strong.
His throat had swollen, and a black, leathery membrane had formed, closing his throat off.
When Rose had removed the membrane, he’d bled, almost drowning in his own blood.
The membrane had re-formed, and he’d died a horrible death.
Rose rubbed a trembling hand over her mouth at the memory, chilled by a deep reluctance to relive it through this small child.
She pushed it away and fisted her hands to ward off the shaking.
This was what she did. She was all Ailis had now, and she would do her best for the child, however paltry that aid might be.
“My lord is not coming, is he?” the woman said, her voice empty, resigned. “He’s punishing us for hunting him.” Tears tracked her face.
Rose knelt beside the woman and took her hands, squeezing them firmly.
“Aye, I’m sorry to say it looks that way.
There’s naught we can do about that now, though.
We cannot force him to do what he doesn’t wish to—and it would be foolish to sit about and wait for a miracle.
We must act now to help your daughter. I need your help.
Will you help me?” She gave the woman’s hands another hard squeeze. “What is your name?”
She was a few years older than Rose’s twenty years. She looked so lost and empty, but her gaze focused on Rose. “I am Iona, and I will do anything you ask, cut out my own heart if it means saving Ailis.”
Rose choked back her emotion, putting it firmly where it belonged—deep in the recesses of her heart, to be examined later, when this was over. But not now. “Well met, Iona. Let’s get busy.”
Rose stayed with Ailis through the night.
She wiped the child’s small, delicate limbs with rags dipped in cool water and gave her infusions of willow bark for the fever, cantharis for the swelling, and monkshood to assuage her pain and help her sleep.
When the moon rose, hope filled Rose that this time she’d made a difference.
The child’s fevered skin had cooled and the swelling was reduced.
But around midnight, Ailis began to wheeze.
Rose opened the child’s mouth and peered inside. The membrane nearly covered the throat.
She checked Ailis’s fingernails. Pale blue.
She turned to her box as if in a dream, her heart beating slow and calm.
This time she would do it. She couldn’t watch Ailis suffer a horribly painful death, would not force Iona through it.
She took out the bottle of laudanum, stared at it for a long moment.
“What is it? What’s wrong with her?” Iona asked, her voice still hopeful, still believing Rose could make a difference.
Rose replaced the laudanum in the box, choosing instead a small probe.
“I need your help again,” Rose said. “What I must do will hurt and frighten her, but it will help her breathe again. Please hold her down.”