“Aye. A little,” she replied.
For a moment, she stood where she knew how to stand. In a market. Among fabric, food, noise, and barter. No one asked whether she had slept in her husband’s bed. No one watched her for weakness.
No one called herme Lady.
A bundle of dried roots at the herb stall sent a bitter smell through the damp air, making her immediately turn. The seller was an older woman with sharp eyes and twine between her teeth. Bundles of rosemary, sage, yarrow, mint, and roots Violet could not name hung from the frame of her stall.
Violet forced her hands to stay still as she approached.
“Have ye angelica root?” she asked.
The woman looked up from tying a bundle. “For flavoring or physic?”
Violet’s fingers closed around her purse. “Physic.”
“Old weakness or new?”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters if ye want some wisdom with the purchase.”
Violet lifted her chin. “It helped before.”
The seller studied her face. “Angelica does ease some symptoms, but it is mainly used for seasoning. It isnae a saint in leaf and root. If the cause is wrong, the cure will be wrong too.”
Violet coughed and cleared her throat as low as she could.Are ye going to sell me the herb or nae?
“I understand.”
“If something has turned bad in the stomach, or if a body has taken what it shouldnae, angelica cannae fix it.”
Violet barely heard the last part. Old weakness. New weakness. The words took her back to morning in the sickroom, Hannah’s hand on her brow and a cup of bitter tea pressed to her lips.
“It helped before,” she said again.
The seller’s expression softened by a fraction. “Then I hope it helps again.”
She turned and grabbed a small bundle tied with blue thread. Violet reached into her purse. Her thumb brushed against a coin, and it dropped to the stall with a dulltap.
The seller pretended to look away as she tried to gather the coins. Then the bundle was pressed into her hand, dry stems and roots wrapped tight. The smell rose through the cloth and filled her nostrils.
At that moment, a woman with a baby passed behind her. The child gave a thin, fussy cry.
John.
Violet turned around too quickly.
The market tilted, and the fabric stall stretched out of place then snapped back. Voices faded and rushed close again. Her stomach dropped, and her fingers immediately went cold around the angelica.
Nay.
She reached for the stall post and caught it, the rough wood biting into her palm. The herb seller said something, but Violet could not hear the words. Instead, she locked her knees and gripped the post harder.
She would not faint in a public market.
She wouldnot.
Not even now, as the square began to slide out from under her.
