Aoife set her fork down. “Kit. What happened?”
He swallowed hard. “I… I shouldn’t say.”
She rose from the table, chair scraping, and strode out of the room straight toward the servants’ door. Kit hurried after her.
“Miss, please—you can’t go down there, miss—”
But Aoife didn’t stop.
She pushed through the narrow service door and down the cramped stairwell into the servants’ hall.
A small knot of people stood hunched around the long trestle table. The moment she entered, they scattered like birds startled from a hedgerow. No one spoke, uncertain how to act with her where she shouldn’t be.
James sat at the centre of it all, left sleeve rolled to the elbow. The skin on his forearm was angry-red, mottled and blistered, already beginning to swell. He gripped his upper arm hard enough that his knuckles stood out white against his skin.
“Here. This will help.” Mrs Harrow entered the room carrying a dish of butter and oblivious to the change of atmosphere in her absence.
Aoife crossed the space in three quick steps and caught her wrist.
“No. Don’t.”
The housekeeper froze, startled.
“It’s an old wives’ tale, butter, but it doesn’t work. Only makes things worse.”
Aoife turned, taking in the room. The servants stood stiffly, eyes fixed too intently on the stone floor.
“Did anyone run it under cold water?” she asked.
Silence stretched. Someone shifted their weight. A maid twisted her apron between her fingers.
Then the butler spoke. “No, miss.”
Aoife took a step towards James, but Mr Lanyon blocked her way.
“That won’t be necessary,” he added after a beat. “Mrs Harrow has it in hand. You shouldn’t trouble yourself with these things.”
“No offence to Mrs Harrow, but my father’s a blacksmith and my mother was a healer. I know what I’m doing.”
She looked past the butler to James. “I know you don’t like me—”
“That’s not—” Mrs Harrow tried to disagree, but Aoife held up a hand to stop her.
“You probably don’t think much of Morran medicine either, but I’ve treated enough burns to know I can help you.”
James stared at her for a long time, the other staff shifting uncomfortably around them. Without warning, he pushed his chair away from the table and stood. The scrape of wood against stone sounded far too loud in the quiet. More than one servant flinched.
“Fine,” he snapped, sharp as a challenge.
The staff parted as he followed her out of the servants’ hall to the courtyard.
Outside, the morning air was cool and sharp. She brought James straight to the pump and eased his arm beneath the spout.
Cold water burst out in uneven spurts as she pumped, splashing across the burn. James sucked in a pained breath, then relief flooded his features as the heat leached away.
“It’s better,” he whispered.
“I’m afraid it’s only temporary,” Aoife murmured as she pumped; the heat would return when she stopped, so she kept going a little while. “Can I ask you something?”
