“Brendan?” she whispered. “Can ye hear me?”
He stirred, moaning, and rolled onto his back. His eyes flickered open, and she realized at once that things were worse than she’d imagined.
He was delirious. His eyes were glazed and sparkling, his face flushed and sweaty despite the cold of the room.
“Hurts,” he grunted. “Man kicked me, opened it up.”
“What are ye saying, Brendan? What happened? How long have ye been like this?”
“Not enough whiskey.”
“What do ye mean?”
His head lolled back, eyes closing, and she sensed that she’d gotten as much out of him as he was able to give.
Carefully, so as not to spook him, she lifted up the hem of his shirt. Her heart dropped into her stomach.
A ragged cut curved along his stomach. It was shallow, but clearly infected. The wound was beginning to fester, the red, hot swell of infection blooming along the sides of the cut. Fever had set in, then.
Argentum whined, and Freya absently reached out and patted his head.
“I know, lad. I know.”
She sat back on her heels, looking around. The wound would have to be thoroughly cleaned, of course. But there were other complications now. He was fevered, and had been lying in an ice-cold house without much food and water for at least a day, possibly more. She needed water, needed herbs for the infection, needed food for him, needed to get him somewhere comfortable…
I certainly won’t be getting home tonight.
She needed to prioritize.
Bouncing to her feet, Freya tackled the first and possibly most important thing—she closed the door. The air was still icy inside, but it was a start. Then, the fire. It took a while to coax flames out of the cold embers and damp wood, but once it caught, it burned fiercely, filling the room with warmth. The frost by the door began to melt.
The next thing to do was to bring Brendan close to that warmth. The house was still deathly cold, and his fever made him heat up and cool down again wildly.
In the end, she was forced to loop her arms under his armpits and haul him across the room, inch by inch. Argentum bounced and barked frantically.
“Ye are not helping,” Freya grunted.
At last, she managed to get Brendan laid out on the fur in front of the fire. She’d entertained hopes of getting him into bed, but there was no way she would be able to lift him. He lay on his back, mumbling under his breath, sweat beading on his brow.
Freya dragged a few blankets from the bed and draped them over him. It seemed to make him more restless, grunting and tossing.
Now for the herbs to try to bring down the infusion. Freya wasn’t thrilled at having to leave Brendan alone again, but there was nothing for it.
“Argentum? Stay,” he instructed. The dog stared at her, cocking his head to one side.
“Stay,” she repeated, and this time he plonked his haunches down on the fur beside Brendan.
“Won’t be long,” she promised, and dived out into the cold night once again.
There was,thankfully, a lantern hanging by the barn door. It wasn’t lit, meaning that Freya had to dart back to the cottage, where she’d left the candle flickering.
The herbs for infection were—if her memory served her correctly—feverfew, chamomile, catmint (if she could find any), lemon balm, and sage. She would make a mixture of the herbs to put on the wound, after she’d cleaned it, and also prepare teas with chamomile and mint to help him sleep.
It was, of course, harder to gather the herbs in the dark, and took longer than she’d have liked. The moon was beginning its descent by the time Freya returned to the cottage, stopping by the well on her way, pockets stuffed full of savory-smelling herbs, a bucket of ice-cold water slopping against her thigh.
Light blared from the windows, and when she let herself in, a wave of warmth washed over her. Part of Freya had hopedagainst hope that Brendan would have miraculously recovered, sitting up and smiling at her. She was disappointed. If anything, he had gotten worse.
While she was gone, he’d thrown off the blankets tucked around him and had rolled off the fur onto the cold stone floor. Sweat was pouring off him now, and his skin was gray and waxy. Argentum was whining.
