Chapter Twenty Four #2
Smiling, she said, “Luck is on our side. ‘Tis already crushed.” Then she added the handful of herbs to the steaming pot. Giving the mixture a quick stir, she returned to her table and set to work, mixing herbs and crushing roots. At length, she returned to the pot and added some of her potion to a bowl of mossy greens. Then, using her fingers, she kneaded the contents. “Ouch,” she squealed, pulling her hand out. She waved her fingers around. “Hot,” she explained to Quinn, not that he hadn’t figured as much already.
Kneeling at the foot of the bed, she unraveled Catarina’s bandage and brushed at Quinn’s dried poultice. “What is this mess?”
He explained the mix of herbs he had used, but she shook her head. “’Tis useless without heat.”
When she scraped away the remainder of the poultice, a yellow ooze began to seep from the wound. Fear instantly gripped Quinn’s heart when the odor reached his nose, for he knew something foul laid waste to her body. His heart began to race. If only he had acted sooner.
“Please,” Quinn said, grasping Abigail’s arm. “She must live.”
Abigail frowned. “She is still here. She can hear you and sense your fear. Hold tight to your faith and do as I say. Now, add some more water to this bowl to reheat the herbs.”
He went over to the pot and dipped the ladle past the surface of rose petals to the reddish liquid below.
When he withdrew the spoon, a new scent filled his nose, pungent and bitter.
He imagined it held the strength of a sword that could cut away the poison from Catarina’s body.
After pouring the steaming potion onto the herbs, he knelt once more beside Catarina and offered Abigail the bowl.
She winced, taking a handful of the hot mixture and squeezed out the extra juice. “’Tis hotter than the fires of hell, but that is good. The heat will draw the poison from her veins.” Then she pressed the poultice to Catarina’s foot. Catarina jerked, but Quinn reached out to steady her leg.
“’Tis too hot,” he snapped.
Abigail shook her head while she deftly wrapped Catarina’s foot in clean linen. “’Tis just right—hot enough to hurt but not to blister.” Then she stood up. “I’m going to make a tisane now.”
Quinn stayed by Catarina’s side and held her hand while he listened to Abigail clatter about the room. It was not long before she came back with a steaming cup.
“Get behind her and tilt her head back a little,” she said. “We’ll see if we can get her to drink any. Just a tiny sip is all we ask,” she said to Catarina.
After precious little of the hot liquid made it down Catarina’s throat, Abigail set aside the cup and felt Catarina’s bandage. “It has cooled,” she said. “We must start, again. The secret is in the heat.”
They carried on like that for some time, changing Catarina’s poultice and bandage and plying her lips with tisane.
After they finished yet another cycle of each remedy, Quinn knelt once more and reached for Catarina, bringing her partway into his arms. Movement near the pot, caught his eye just as Abigail dropped fistfuls of white and pink blossoms into the brew.
Soon a new scent filled the room. It reminded Quinn of a springtime meadow.
“What will ye do with that?” Quinn asked.
Abigail shook her head. “’Tis not medicine of the kind yer thinking. She’s not going to drink it. But the sweetness of the air might keep the foulness from her dreams. It’ll coax happy memories from her mind.”
Quinn looked down at Catarina. He thought about what her youth must have been like living in the Redesdale fortress with Bella.
“I can see ye inside the great hall with yer family, sitting at the high table in all yer finery,” he whispered in her ear.
“Bella said yer parents loved each other dearly. I imagine their chairs at supper would have been close together so they could touch. I think ye would have sat on yer mother’s side, and Bella on yer father’s.
” He smiled, imagining her as a carefree lass.
“Ye must have loved the market. I wonder if ye ever touched any of the fabric I brought back on La Vierge. So many bolts of satin and silk. Perhaps yer hand grasped what my own had held. I wish I could take ye there, to the Berwick market of our youth—not that I could afford to buy ye satin and silk.”
“I do not want satin or silk.”
His heart quickened as he lifted his head and looked into her amber eyes.
She smiled weakly. “All I want is you.”
He clasped her cheeks, his heart pounding. “Her fever is breaking,” he called to Abigail. Then he wrapped his arm around her.
Abigail crossed to their side and smiled down at Catarina, feeling her brow. Quinn looked up at Abigail expectantly, but her mouth pressed in a thin line, and she shook her head.
He scowled at her. “She just needs something to drink,” he said and grabbed the cup of water. He lifted Catarina’s head, and this time she swallowed the water down.
“Ye did well, lass,” he said.
Catarina’s lips upturned, a mere hint of a smile, before her eyes closed.
He dropped to his knees. “Catarina? Wake up, Catarina.” He did not want her to close her eyes again. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. Tears stung his eyes when his lips touched her fiery skin.
Abigail’s hand came to rest on his shoulder. He looked up into her flooded violet eyes. “There must be more we can do,” he said.
She swiped at her tears and threw her shoulders back. “Indeed, there is. We can hold fast to hope and work until we drop.” Then she pointed to the table. “Grind up more arrowroot. I’ll add more peat to the fire. Do not give up, Quinn.”
“I’m a MacVie,” he growled. “MacVies never give up.”