“I won’t tell you yet.”
“Then I can’t agree.”
Mother Margarite tilted her head. “Then your friend will die.”
I looked down at Laurel’s limp body on the table. Mother Margarite’s voice softened, though not kindly. “I know you’re a busy man, Sheriff. I’m willing to give you time to fulfill your oath.”
I swallowed hard. “Then I agree. I’ll give you anything you ask for if you heal her,” I said. “You have my word.” I would be willing to work day and night for years if it meant Laurel was saved.
“Then swear it.”
“I swear it. Now, please, help her.”
Suddenly, Margarite seemed full of vitality. She bustled about, collecting bottles, herbs, powders, and potions. I checked Laurel’s heartbeat and found only weak flutters, as if her heart was barely remembering how to beat.
“Please live,” I whispered to her. “Please.” I didn’t care that we fought. I didn’t care that we were different or that she was impulsive, impatient, impossible, and more stubborn than a mule with a headache. I only wanted her better. Even if she did not want me back, even if she returned to Sherwood and chose a life that didn’t include me, I could survive knowing she was alive and well somewhere in the world.
I would not survive her death.
Mother Margarite began muttering to herself as picked up bottles and ground herbs. A chill breeze swept through the cottage though the door was closed and the day outside was warm. I looked toward the chimney. The blue smoke from the fire had thickened, curling low against the rafters before drifting down in pale ribbons so the candles flickered.
My blood ran cold.
I tried to quell my paranoia, but this looked like every dark, cautionary tale I had ever heard whispered to children. Every story of forbidden bargains, cursed healers, and desperate men who paid too much for miracles. I no longer knew what I was seeing, or what my fear had invented for itself.
Mother Margarite moved her bony hands over Laurel’s body then swiftly combined powders, crushed leaves, and a few drops of potions from various bottles into a shallow bowl. Sometimes she murmured under her breath. Sometimes she hummed a ghostly melody. Once, she snapped at me to hold Laurel still while she poured a dark liquid between her lips.
“Baron?” Margarite said as she began unwrapping the bandages from Laurel’s middle.
“What?” I asked, trying not to stare too hard at the gashes across Laurel’s middle.
“There are some chickens out back. Go kill one and bring me the heart. The fresher it is, the better it draws out the infection.”
I obeyed. Even though I’d killed and cooked plenty of chickens in my time, this felt different, but I didn’t ask any questions. I mutely handed the heart over once I was finished, not even bothering to wash the blood from my hands.
Mother Margarite cleaned the wounds with a harsh-smelling liquid that made Laurel’s body jerk even in unconsciousness, then placed the chicken heart where the gashes were the worst. I was sickening to watch but then, to my amazement, the swelling began to ease.
It didn’t happen all at once and was slow enough that I almost thought I imagined it at first. But the angry color faded by degrees and Laurel’s breathing deepened. The tightness around her mouth relaxed and the terrible heat in her skin lessened slightly beneath my palm.
Mother Margarite continued to work.
She packed the wounds with a thick green paste, then wrapped thin black bandages firmly around Laurel’s middle. Only when she had finished did she step back and wipe her hands on a rag that looked as ancient as she was.
“She’ll come around in another day or two,” Mother Margarite said. “Keep the wounds clean. Change the dressings twice a day and apply this paste each time.”
She shoved a large jar of green salve into my hands.
“She is to drink water whenever she is awake. Gruel and porridge at first, nothing heavier. She will be weak so don’t let her do any work. Do you understand me? None. She is to lie inbed. Even when she begins to feel better, she’s not to get up for at least four weeks. Preferably six.”
I stared at Laurel.
Sweat no longer beaded across her forehead. Her breathing came easier now, and a faint touch of color had returned to her face. When I bent to listen to her heart, the beat was stronger. Relief flooded through me so powerfully that I nearly sank to my knees. She was alive. She was going to live.
“Thank you,” I said, and meant it more sincerely than I had ever meant anything. “I don’t know how to repay you.”
Who cared that the cottage was unsettling? Who cared that Mother Margarite looked like every nightmare ever carved into an old woman’s face? She had saved Laurel. For that, I would have forgiven nearly anything. I scooped Laurel carefully into my arms and turned toward the door. As I reached the threshold, the memory of my oath returned.
I stopped. “What did you want in return?” I asked.
