The room grew more oppressively warm by the moment. Nigel loosened his tie, unfastened his collar.
Finally, the doctor rose from Luna’s beside—taking care to duck away from the low ceiling—and stomped over to his medical bag. “Are you her husband?” he asked, even as he popped it open and rummaged inside.
Nigel’s throat thickened. “No,” he admitted.
“Brother?”
He shook his head.
“What are you then?”
“I’m her—” Nigel paused. He’d almost saidboss,but then, remembering the lie he’d told earlier, switched at the last second. “I’m her cousin.”
“Uh huh.” Doctor Bucket paused his rummaging to cast Nigel aknowinglook. “Good character my arse,” he muttered as he went back to business, pulling oddments from the bag’s depths. “Tell me, are you the kind of cousin who feels comfortable applying poultices?”
“Poultices?” Nigel’s brows rose. “You mean, as in . . . on her . . . ?”
“That’s right. On her chest. To draw infection from the lungs.”
“I’ve never . . . That is to say, I have no experience . . .” Nigel stopped. His hands felt suddenly sweaty, sweatier even than the rest of his overheated self. “Whatever she needs,” he finished lamely.
“You don’t need to undress her, if that’s a worry,” Doctor Bucket added, with another speaking look Nigel wouldn’t dare to interpret. “I’ll apply the first one now and leave you with the stuff. You just clear off the old one and apply the new every two hours, until there’s a change in her breathing.” The old manraised a salty brow. “It’s going to be a long day followed by a long night, I’m afraid. If she can pull through ‘til morning, I trust she’ll be all right. She’s young and strong; there’s a good chance there won’t be any permanent damage. But only if someone’s here for her.”
“I’ll be here,” Nigel said immediately.
Doctor Bucket grunted. “Have you managed to get any liquid into her?”
“Tea. Chamomile.”
“Good. Water too, if you can. And”—the doctor pulled out a glass bottle and what looked like a small, plastic shot glass—“this. Don’t try to disguise it in the tea. It won’t work. Nasty stuff, but you make sure she swallows. She’ll try to spit it up, so you’ll have to hold her mouth closed.”
Nigel’s eyes widened in horror. His ears pounded so that he could scarcely take in the dosage instructions. “I’m . . . I’m not sure I can do that,” he managed at last.
Doctor Bucket shrugged. “If you want her to live, you’ll do as I say.”
“Won’t you remain and help?”
“I’ve got other calls to make before me Green Yule’s Eve supper. If I’m lucky, I might get home before the plum pudding is served.” The doctor rested a heavy hand on Nigel’s shoulder. “Now,” he said, in gentle tones of professional comfort, “where should I send the bill?”
Nigel cleared his throat and gave the address for The Arcane Bouquet.
Doctor Bucket nodded and patted his shoulder a few times. “Your little, um,cousinis lucky to have you,” he said, before turning back to his patient. He set about scooping a foul, black, charcoal substance onto a square of white cloth, which he then applied to Luna’s pale breast with sticky plaster. He followed this up by uncorking the medicine bottle, tipping a dose downher throat, then pinching her nostrils shut and holding her chin firmly closed while she struggled. It took all the self-control Nigel possessed not to launch himself at the man and drag him off her, but he held himself in check, gripping the back of the one little chair until his knuckles whitened.
When the struggle was over, Doctor Bucket checked that the sticky plaster was still in place. Then he turned and pressed the bottle of medicine into Nigel’s palm. “Every two hours,” he said, “or so. Do your best. I’ll be back to check on her in the morning, see how she’s getting on.”
With that, he closed his medicine bag with a snap, leaving behind medicine, poultice ingredients, and sticking plasters. He scooped up his coat, hat, and scarf and made his getaway from the sweltering room, like a Green Yule ghost, come and gone.
Nigel turned to look at Luna, lying back on her propped-up cushions. Her eyes were closed. The ugly black poultice seeped through the white cloth stuck to her breast, which rose and fell swiftly with her labored breath. Every ragged gasp tore at his ears.
Running both hands through his hair, Nigel shook his head and bit back a curse.
The first time he gave her the dose, Luna’s eyes flew wide and stared up at him with such accusation, even as her hands clawed at his forearms. Nigel had hated himself many times over the course of the last several years, but possibly never more so than in that moment.
But he did as Doctor Bucket had demonstrated, pinching her nose and clamping her jaw shut, until he saw her throat move in a swallow. When he let her go, she rolled onto her side, nearly falling out of bed as she coughed and gagged. But no medicine came up. So that was a mercy.
Gently, uttering a stream of whispered apologies, Nigel eased her back onto the pillows again. Her poultice was knocked askew, the plasters pulling away from her delicate skin. He peeled it up as gently as he could and wiped away the gunky black residue. It was disgusting work, but he managed it, and managed as well to assemble the fresh poultice and stick it in place. Luna did not seem to be aware of him throughout this process.
When those unpleasant duties were accomplished, he plied her with a little more chamomile tea. She seemed halfwayconscious for this, and he managed to get a bit more down than he had before. Water, however, she would not take. Just tea.
