“I believe I can save him,” she said, simply.
Her words fell into silence. After finally accepting the awful inevitability of his father’s death, Tristan found that he could not easily abandon it.
Morwenna straightened her back. “The physician was quite clear. He told us there was no hope.” Her voice wavered but remained strong.
“There is always hope, my lady.” Juliana bowed her head respectfully. “But I will not act without your say so.”
Still holding his mother’s hands, Tristan felt a tremor pass through her. He stayed where he was, but tilted back his head solook up at Juliana. He had not had a chance to warn her away from mentioning anything that could be construed as witchcraft.
“What will you do?”
“I brought a salve with me that I thought would help. And a tincture that was mixed at dawn just yesterday.”
“How did you know what was needed?” Morwenna’s question was sharp.
Juliana did not flinch. “Word has spread about his lordship’s condition,” she said, carefully.
Tristan rubbed at his forehead. “And what is in the salve?”
“’Tis merely herbs. The tincture is an old recipe.” Juliana paused. “An effective remedy.”
Morwenna stood up abruptly. “Do what you will.”
Tristan reached for her. “Mother—” he began.
But Morwenna motioned him away. “I will wait for news in my solar.” With her head held high, the countess swept from the room.
For a moment, Juliana’s gaze met with Tristan’s. “I require some assistance,” she said.
“I will send for Mirrie,” he replied without thinking. “She is an excellent nurse.”
But Juliana pursed her lips, her hands resting on her hips. “I do not believe I am a favourite of Miss Mirabel.”
“Mirrie likes everyone,” he stated, frowning.
Juliana paused. “As you wish, of course. But I prefer to work in a chamber free of tension.”
She walked over to the bed and Tristan found himself following her. When she raised her eyebrows pointedly, he reached into the leather satchel and withdrew a glass jar filled with a dark green ointment. Juliana nodded and held out her hand for it.
“The tincture is in there as well. Pour two drops into some wine and try to make him drink.”
Like a well-trained servant, Tristan did as he was bid. A flask of wine stood on his father’s nightstand. He poured some into a goblet and added two drops of the clear tincture.
It occurred to him then that he had placed his whole trust in Juliana. At her word, he could be about to administer poison to one of England’s most powerful men.
Midway to his father’s lips, his hand faltered.
“This will help him?”
He meant it as a warning, so that he might look into her eyes as she answered and discern the truth of her intentions. But it came out as a plea.
She nodded once, meeting his gaze without hesitation.
Tristan falteringly slid a hand beneath his father’s heavy head and urged him a little off the pillows.
“Drink this,” he spoke encouragingly. Not hoping to stir him into consciousness, but to appeal to the part of his brain that might respond to such common instruction.
The earl did not answer, but his dried lips parted enough for Tristan to tip some of the liquid into his mouth. He held his breath until his father swallowed, then repeated the action. At last, the goblet was empty.
