Chapter 1 #2
Matthew and Duncan quickly removed themselves from her path, knowing she would trample them if they did otherwise.
Nobody offered to come with her, and she wouldn’t have accepted it if they’d asked.
This, as usual, was between her and Violet.
She raced across the field that separated the stillhouse from the cottage, her skirts tangling around her ankles and doing their best to see that she stumbled on her way through tall grass.
Stray branches and thistles clawed at her legs where they could, but she tightened her jaw against the sharp pain and concentrated on hurrying.
Even with Duncan’s reassurance that Violet had made it home and hadn’t been harmed during the fall, Hannah still couldn’t help the creeping dread that tightened her throat more each day.
The way her little sister seemed to be fading more and more every time she tried to eat or drink and retched instead, every time fever shook her too-thin frame, and Hannah spent the night sitting beside her with cold cloths refreshed every few minutes and sips of willow bark tea coaxed when possible, even if they rarely stayed down for long.
Nothing I do works. None of the teas or tinctures I’ve made for her seem to stay down.
Only the other day, she’d spent hours making an old, complicated currant-cake recipe, one that Violet used to love as a child. For a moment, it really had seemed as if it might work. She brightened up at the smell of the cake, and eagerly agreed to eat a slice.
Poor Violet was barely halfway through the slice before it all came back up again, spewing half-chewed cake with its stomach-turningly sweet scent into a bowl. Her stomach was more unsettled than ever afterwards, too.
No more currant cake, even though Violet had queasily assured her that it tasted delicious, even on the way back up. Those were the sorts of little jokes she tried to make lately, desperately trying to wring a smile from Hannah’s grim face.
No time for smiles. I’ll smile till the cows come home once Violet gets better.
Hannah burst through the front door and took a moment to draw a sharp breath of relief when she saw Violet sitting at the small table adjacent to the kitchen with a cup of tea in front of her.
Her sister was pale, too pale. The girls were obviously sisters, with Violet’s chestnut-brown hair almost identical to Hannah’s, though her blue eyes contrasted with her own green.
Their faces had always been similar, pale ovals that freckled heavily in the sun.
Hannah had taken after their father, and Violet favored their mother. Either way, right now her sister was skeletal, cheeks hollowed and eyes sinking into her face, and it looked like it took immense effort for her to lift the teacup to her lips.
She’s too weak. She’s getting weaker and weaker by the day.
Why is nothing working?
Violet’s hands shook with the effort of moving the cup to her mouth, and she forced a hollow smile as she turned her head. “Why the fuss? Aren’t ye meant to be at the distillery today? Work willnae get done with ye running home willy-nilly.”
Hannah narrowed her eyes. “Oh, I ken ye didnae just ask me that.”
Violet grimaced. “Sorry.”
Hannah threw herself into the chair beside her at the table. Her heart pounded as if she’d run several miles at one go, without stopping. Uphill, no less.
“Ye’re going to pretend Duncan didnae fetch me? After ye fainted?”
“I told him nae to,” Violet muttered into her cup, before putting it down on the table and letting out a breath that tried to be an annoyed sound and succeeded in sounding exhausted instead.
“I only got light in the head. Maybe closed me eyes for a moment. I didnae faint. I probably just… just sat down for a wee rest. Ye know how Duncan panics. I didnae want ye pulled from yer work to attend to me. I’m fine, I keep telling ye. ”
Hannah passed a hand over her face. She wanted to scream.
Resting her eyes. Having a wee sit down. Aye, resting her eyes me backside. It’s a swoon, pure and simple. And Violet never was much of a swooner. This is a bad sign.
That had been happening more and more as she had struggled with what turned her stomach so nastily. Perhaps the swooning was simply a side effect of being so weak, or perhaps it was a progression of the illness. Either way, one thing was clear. This sickness was not going away anytime soon.
Hannah couldn’t shake the way her mind kept creeping toward her greatest fear: Violet being too weak to fight this off, going the way of their mother and father. She couldn’t contend with the possibility.
There was no way that Violet wasn’t considering it, too. As she watched, her sister tightened her hands around the hot cup of tea, her lips pressing into a thin, almost invisible line.
“Only resting me eyes,” she repeated, softly.
“Only,” Hannah echoed, watching her little sister pretend to take another sip of tea. Violet had been refusing it more and more, claiming it was bitter and it upset her stomach.
Hannah’s gaze was drawn to a bottle placed proudly in the middle of the table.
A bottle she’d placed there not two days ago.
Her own mix, a smooth flavor with a touch of flowered heather that produced a honeyed taste that spoke to mead without shouting.
A whisky she’d been experimenting with since she’d found a cask her father had started to age before he’d died the year prior.
Something she hadn’t tasted anywhere before and knew would draw eyes.
Important eyes. Eyes that might just have access to a specific plant that she hoped would help give her sister some life back in her face.
“I’m going to be out of the house tomorrow.” The decision was made as she spoke the words.
Violet looked up, expression startled, clearly having expected far more lecture and far less leaving her to her own devices. She blinked, her expression shifting between relief and suspicion that the subject of her faint had been laid to rest so quickly. “Aye? To go where?”
“Business.” Hannah smiled at her. “Duncan will check in on ye. See to it that ye try to eat something, hm? Just a few bites. For me.”
Violet grimaced at the words, which only made Hannah more certain of her decision. She reached out to rest a hand on her sister’s shoulder and tried not to let the strain show on her face when she felt the fragile bones so close to the skin.
She would not be telling her more. Violet didn’t need to know she’d made the decision to ask for an audience with the most terrifying laird of the Highlands, with naught to offer but a bottle of whisky she’d spent the better part of a year perfecting to her satisfaction.
Their Laird: Aiden Calder, Laird MacBain.
The man who had the angelica. The herb that could save Violet.