CHAPTER ONE
“James!” Eva shouted as she sprinted down the dirt path, her breath tearing from her lungs as she dodged startled villagers.
Her skirts tangled around her legs, but she did not slow until she reached the apothecary’s worn wooden door. She shoved it open with both hands, the hinges groaning in protest as she stumbled inside.
“Are ye here?” she cried, her voice sharp with panic as she scanned the dim interior. Her pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out the crackle of the hearth and the faint herbal scent that always clung to the place. She moved past the counter, her hands clutching her shawl as though to hold herself steady. Every second felt like a lifetime she could not afford to lose.
“Aye, child, I am here, daenae fash yerself,” James said, emerging from behind a shelf of jars. His thinning white hair stuck out in wisps, and his weathered hands trembled slightlyas he wiped them on his apron. He strode toward her with the limping gait of old age, his expression softening at the sight of her tears. She had always been fond of the old healer, but today she needed more than comfort; she needed hope.
“James,” Eva said, her breath shaking as the words tumbled out, “me maither and brother have taken a turn for the worse. They have a fever now, hot as fire.”
Her voice cracked, and she pressed a hand to her chest, unable to steady the tremble that overtook her. Her heart pounded as though it wished to escape her ribs.
James let out a long, weary sigh, lines deepening around his eyes. “I was worried this might happen,” he murmured as he turned toward his cabinets. He searched through jars and bundles, pushing aside dried herbs with careful fingers. At last, he took out an empty jar and stared at it with resignation heavy in his shoulders.
“What?” Eva demanded, stepping forward as dread clawed at her throat. “What is it? Their lives hang on by a thread.”
Her hands balled into fists at her sides, the panic rising so sharply she felt it burn in her chest. She could not bear more uncertainty; she needed answers.
James closed the cabinet door with a soft thud. “I’m out of yarrow,” he said, his voice thick with regret. “And that is the herb that lowers fever.” He held up the empty jar as though it had betrayed him.
Eva’s breath hitched as fear tightened its grip on her. “Then I must get some more,” she said, the words rushing out in desperation. She moved toward the door as if she could will the herb into existence. Her heart hammered with fierce urgency.
James shook his head slowly, his gaze troubled. “The sheep got into me gardens and ate it all. The merchant I take some of me stocks from willnae be back through for another three months,” he said. “I’ve nae even a bit left.” His tone carried the weight of defeat, and it made Eva’s knees nearly buckle.
“Three months?” Eva exclaimed, her voice rising in panic. “James, we must do somethin’!” Her eyes burned with unshed tears, and she fought the urge to collapse right there on the worn wooden floor. The thought of losing them, of watching them waste away, sent a sharp ache through her whole chest.
She turned in a tight circle, her breaths coming unevenly, despair creeping in like cold mist. There was no way she could find the yarrow herself; she did not know where it grew or how to recognize it even if she did. Her hands trembled as she braced herself against the counter, her legs quivering from fear and exhaustion. For a moment, she felt the entire world shrinking around her.
She looked at all the items on the walls.
“Are ye sure ye have none hidden?” she said.
The apothecary hut was warm and dimly lit, the hearth glowing softly beneath a blackened iron kettle as she moved through.Bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters, their earthy scents filling the air with a comforting familiarity that now felt like mockery. Wooden shelves lined the walls, cluttered with jars of powders, roots, and tinctures labeled in James’s crooked handwriting, that she now fumbled through. The place was small and cozy, but today it felt suffocating.
James rubbed his hand over his face, his sigh long and troubled. “There might be yarrow in the castle’s healer stocks,” he said, almost reluctantly. “Nina always kept a good supply.” He avoided Eva’s gaze, as though hesitant to hope.
Eva straightened sharply, clinging to the spark of possibility. “Then ye must get it for me,” she said, stepping closer with urgency burning in her eyes. “Please, James. Ye’re the only one who can.”
James looked pained as he met her gaze. “I cannae, lass,” he said, his voice softening with sorrow. “Me and the castle healer, Nina, we’ve had a fallin’ out. She hates me. Nothin' but a misunderstandin' it is.” His shoulders slumped as though burdened by more than age.
Eva stared at him, disbelief and desperation tangling within her. “Hates ye? Why?” she asked, though she hardly cared for the story, only for the solution slipping farther from her reach.
Her hands shook as she clasped them before her, trying to steady her breathing. She feared the answer before he even spoke it.
James sighed again, slower this time, as though weighed down by the memory. “It’s a long tale, child, and nae the time for it,” he said. “But trust me when I say she’d nae open the door if she saw me walkin’ up her steps.” His voice carried more sadness than bitterness.
“But ye might write a letter to Nina,” he said, offering her the faintest thread of hope. “She may help ye, for she never could turn away a soul in need. She may have her hands full as there is talk of a ceilidh this eve.” He offered Eva a weak, encouraging smile.
Eva nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat as relief and dread mingled in her chest.
“Thank ye, James,” she murmured, stepping back toward the door. Her heart beat with renewed urgency as she gathered her resolve. Without another word, she pushed the door open and headed toward home. The idea of writing a letter gnawed at her, but she knew it would take far too long for a response, and her family didn't have time to spare.
Every breath she took felt shallow, tight with fear, and the weight of helplessness pressed against her ribs. By the time her cottage came into view, a spark of reckless resolve had already begun to kindle in her chest.
I must take matters into me own hands. Tis the only way.
Her home sat nestled between two larger cottages, humble and weather-worn with its peat-thatched roof and stone wallspatched by her own hands. A small garden of herbs and vegetables sat wilted in the fading evening light, long neglected these past days as sickness consumed her household. Smoke drifted lazily from the narrow chimney.
