Mirrie tried and failed to hide her smile. “Do you recall your way to the kitchens?”
“Of course.” But she was right. It had been some years since he had last been there. And then it had only been to swipe freshly baked cakes from the store.
A commotion by the doorway made them both turn.
“Mother,” he exclaimed.
His mother was a small, slight woman with silvery blonde hair and beautiful green eyes that had always been able to read the secrets of his soul. He had never before seen her face so drawn, nor her body sway with grief and weariness.
“Welcome home, my boy.” Despite it all, her smile was still warm. “And Mirrie too. What a lovely surprise.” She took Mirrie’s hands in her own and kissed them before stepping into Tristan’s embrace. He was shocked at how frail she felt in his arms.
“What is happening here, Mother?” He pulled back to better look at her. Morwenna, Countess of Wolvesley, had always been more at home in the paddocks than in a ballroom. She loved to be out-of-doors, and usually her cheeks shone with the bloom of good health. Today, she was pale and fragile.
She pressed her lips together and looked at him sorrowfully. “I’m afraid it is your father.”
He heard Mirrie exclaim and was dimly aware that she had lowered herself into a chair.
“What did the physician say?” he demanded. Surely the man could prescribe some curative potion that would see the Earl of Wolvesley regain his strength and vigour.
“Oh, Tristan.” His mother’s eyes grew glassy with tears. “He said that we should prepare for the worst.”
Chapter Six
Mirrie had neverseen a change come over someone so quickly.
All of Tristan’s confidence disappeared in an instant. Despair washed over his handsome features as he staggered away from Morwenna. At first, he put his hands to his face but then he gripped the back of his father’s chair like a man on the verge of falling.
Morwenna fixed her steady green gaze on the floor, as if she could not bear to witness such anguish in her son.
“I am sorry,” Mirrie said aloud, wishing there was something to do to help. “Shall I attend to Angus for a while and give you the chance to rest?”
The countess looked as if a gust of wind might knock her sideways, but she summoned a smile and shook her head slowly. “Thank you, dear Mirrie. But I do not like to be long away from him.”
Mirrie put a hand to her heart. The deep love shared between Angus and Morwenna was something she had admired since childhood. It had brought them much happiness and now that would inevitably turn to pain.
“Is there really nothing that can be done?” Tristan’s voice broke on the question and Mirrie knew another stab of sympathy for him. “I did not think him so very ill when I left.”
“Your father took a turn for the worse the day before you departed for Ember Hall, but I did not like to burden you with it. Of course, we all thought the setback was temporary andhe would soon recover.” Morwenna rubbed at her arms as if warding off a chill. The dark smudges under her eyes caused Mirrie to wonder when she had last slept. “Your father has been bled so much, I fear he has little left in him.”
Tristan made a choking sound and Mirrie joined Morwenna in gazing at the dark knots in the polished floor beneath their feet. But something niggled at the back of her mind. Before she could think better of it, she found herself speaking into the silence.
“Frida has always been against the act of bleeding to cure illness,” she declared. In the next moment her cheeks flushed hot. Who was she to question the castle physician? “I am sorry,” she added quietly, hoping her pronouncement would be ignored.
But Tristan was gazing at her as if she had handed him fresh hope. “Frida is a skilled healer.” He motioned towards his mother. “You have always said so.”
Morwenna gave a little shrug. “Frida inherited the skills of my grandmother, it is true. But I cannot claim that either of them ever treated an illness of this sort.”
Tristan leaned over the back of the chair, almost entreatingly. “What are Frida’s arguments against the practice?”
Mirrie’s mind raced as she tried to remember. “I only know that she would not allow it for Flora last winter. She turned the physician away and nursed the child back to health using only herbs and potions she mixed herself.”
“We must summon Frida.” Tristan’s pronouncement echoed around the solar.
“Nay.” Morwenna spoke with equal force. “She is near her time and the upset could harm the babe. I will not allow it.”
Mirrie thought for a moment that Tristan would argue the point, but he only nodded. “Mayhap you are right.” He rubbed at the growth of stubble across his suntanned cheeks. “But there are other healers. Other physicians, even, who have more intheir arsenal than bleeding.” He strode from the desk and came to stand beside his mother, towering over her diminutive frame. “Has anything else been tried?”
Morwenna’s eyes widened. “At the beginning, of course. Before calling the physician. We tried hot broths and applied henbane to his joints. But the new physician trained in Italy. He said our potions were outdated and ineffective.”
