“I’ve sent for a physician from Stonewall,” he said. “He’ll arrive this evening.”
She insisted there was no need for a physician, but the hacking cough betrayed her. No doubt she was concerned with cost.
“The cost is covered, widow. Worry only about your health.”
If Baron had to pay from his own pocket, so be it. In the back of his mind, he heard voices:Your father’s collapsed!
Baron forced the dark memories away.
“I’ve heard the steward ... he doesn’t approve ...” The widow fell to a coughing fit, and when she spoke again, her voice could barely be heard. “Surely milord can ... can just sort me right.”
Widow Fletcher managed a weak smile, her eyes glassy with fever.
Baron stopped himself from rubbing his witch’s mark. Listening to her struggle for breath, he said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
The widow’s small house held an even smaller kitchen. She was almost out of fresh water; he would draw more for her after Mrs. Caldwell arrived. He filled a wooden cup and gently traced hisfingertip around the smooth edge, like coaxing crystal to sing. He heard that song in his mind, but it wavered. Fractured.
He saw his father thrashing in bed.
Heard the physician.There’s nothing I can do—
Nothing I can do.
Baron blinked, looking down at the cup now filled with sour milk. Useless. He opened the window and emptied the cup, slopping milk curdles across a bed of dried brown leaves. Though his head pounded with an ache, he filled the cup for another attempt. Usually, magic was an instinctive thing, and he could perform a Cast with hardly a thought, but when he overexerted himself or tried to force it, his own mind retaliated with spikes of pain.
After two additional attempts, he finally silenced the memories enough to make a honeyed tea, though it was far from his best work.
After drinking it, Widow Fletcher dozed fitfully, her cough eased but her sickness lingering. Baron couldn’t cure her, just as he’d been unable to cure his father. He could only ease the symptoms.
Baron’s fingers trembled. He interlaced and clenched them.
Mrs. Caldwell arrived after the widow finally slipped into a deep, restful sleep. Once he’d finished informing her of the remaining soup and coming physician, the matron stopped Baron at the door.
“You do this hamlet good, my lord,” Mrs. Caldwell said quietly. “The former baron, rest his soul, he would be fiercely proud.”
Baron nodded his thanks, but he did not tell her how much better he could do if he were worth his salt as a Caster. The books Sarah had burned had contained incredible stories of Stone Casters who constructed castles, of Fluid Casters who redirected blood flow in the human body. Even purified it.
A Caster like that could have cleansed his father’s infection. Could have saved his life.
Before he left, Baron remembered to draw water. It was the only thing he could do.
When he returned to the manor, he sat in his armchair by the fireplace and read Princess Aria’s letter once more. Of all the remarkable details in it—one after another—perhaps the most remarkable was the closing signature.
With hope.
What, exactly, was she hoping for?
And more important still—
If Baron sent a response, what washehoping for?
She’d seen joy in his magic, that was something. But Sarah had also seemed accepting at first. His father had trusted her, loved her, and lost her. Baron had no intention of loving a princess, but he did not know if he could even take the first step to trusting one.
And yet . . .
Promise me, son.
Even had he obtained his seat at court, he would have been one voice in a sea of dissention. There had always been slim chance of him affecting real change; he had simply agreed with his father that any chance was worth the effort.
