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“I can take care of myself.”
Accountable. The stupid word echoes in my skull, in Isolde’s voice, of course.
She scoffs before staring past me at the dull light streaming through the window, her eyes glazing over. “I’m not afraid of death, you know. I look forward to it—to finally be at rest. I’ll get to see Bryn and my Henry. But I’ve always known what my death would mean for your future. That’s what worries me. I just wish …”
The sweat beading on my forehead freezes as an icy dread encompasses me.
“What?” I press. “What do you wish?”
She refocuses her eyes on me and says with an almost impossible amount of lucidness, “I wish you’d learned more about herbs.”
I pull back, surprised. “What?”
She opens her mouth, but before she can speak, a firm voice behind me interrupts us. “You’re not leaving this bed, Tanse.”
Isolde stands in the narrow door frame, statuesque in a maroon silk dress and holding a gleaming silver tray overflowing with leafy herbs and a steaming teapot.
She looks so different from when I last saw her in the greenhouse, wearing that dingy gray dress, her eyes so threatening. This version of Isolde is the one I know best—wearing something beautiful with an air of gentle authority about her.
She strides forward, and my back stiffens. I step back to make room for her as she places the tray on top of the bureau.
“How long has she been like this?” she asks, her back facing me as she begins to tie herbs together in a bundle.
“A few days,” I say stiffly. “She—”
“I’m fine,” Gran interrupts with a cough. “There’s no reason why I shouldn’t work.”
“Quiet!” Isolde turns from the herbs and shoots her a hard glare before saying softly, “I wasn’t talking to you.”
Gran closes her mouth with a scowl as Isolde turns back to her herbs, placing the bundle in a tall, clear glass. “Continue, Henrietta,” she instructs.
I glance at Gran nervously. “Um, well, Gran just … fell in the kitchen. She was trying to get a bowl out of the cupboard. It was too high, though. Cleo or I really should’ve helped her.”
Isolde hums knowingly. I don’t say the word “sickness,” but it hangs in the air along with the herbal fog created when she pours steaming water over the herbs.
When she turns around, the hot water surrounding the herbal bundle is a brownish color. Kneeling beside Gran, she holds the glass out toward her.
“Drink,” she orders crisply.
Gran wheezes as she inhales the air around the glass. She must not like what she smells because she immediately starts scooting back, releasing a jagged cough when her back hits the wall.
“No, I don’t want to sleep,” she sputters helplessly. “I want to work. I want to stay with—”
“Shh,” Isolde croons like she’s comforting a toddler. “You know it’s for the best.”
Tight-lipped, Gran shakes her head.
“You must do what I say, Tansy.” Isolde’s voice is harder now.
Gran’s eyes flick toward me warily before she shakes her head again. “No, not this time.”
My eyes widen in surprise. She always follows Isolde’s orders—every evil, crazy thing she’s ever forced her to do. This is the first time she’s ever pushed back.
I gasp as Isolde moves quickly. Taking hold of Gran’s wrists, she holds them against her chest with one hand while moving the glass closer to her face with the other.
“I don’t want to sleep,” Gran repeats on a pant as she begins to struggle and grunt, and the herbed water sloshes on her chest. “I need to be awake for Hetty.”
The indifference permeating me over the past few days evaporates as my heart pounds.
