Page 132 of The Frozen River

“You mustn’t take too much,” I tell her. “Only two teaspoons a day. Once in the morning. Once in the evening. Would you like me to get you the first one?”

“Please.”

“Stay here. I’ll get a spoon.”

I leave her, head tilted back against the sofa. The kitchen is small and tidy, located at the back of the house, and I find what I’m looking for in a small basket on the counter. A set of pewter spoons. Neatly stacked. Everything in its place. The house feels sterile to me. Devoid of all the life and noise and chaos that I am accustomed to.

“Here,” I say, once I am back in the sitting room, as I carefully pour a spoonful of the tonic and tip it into Lidia’s mouth. “You should feel better soon.”

She swallows the pale amber liquid. “Thank you.”

I expect her to shudder. The tonic is bitter and the reflex normal. But on Lidia’s thin frame, it looks like a seizure. I watch her carefully for a moment to make sure she is well.

“Let’s get you to bed. Rest will help.”

Lidia lifts an arm, flapping absentmindedly at the ceiling. “Upstairs.”

She can get there under her own power, but I follow her up the stairs, just in case. The last thing I need is for Lidia to take a dizzy tumble. But once at the top, she guides me down the hallway and into the bedroom she shares with her husband.

I help Lidia into bed and draw up the blanket. The woman looks so small and frail, in so much pain. She mutters her thanks and is asleep within moments.

I have known only two other women who suffer from the dreaded mygreyn, but neither were this debilitated. When the headaches descend upon Lidia, she is all but crippled, requiring a cold, dark room and no interference. Watching her now, I regret my cruelty. The woman is suffering, and I had no right to deny her any form of relief. Regardless of what her husband has done.

“Let me know when you need more,” I tell her.

I set the bottle and teaspoon on the small bedside table, then tiptoe from the room. Down the hall. Back to the parlor. I collect my medical bag and am almost at the entrance when I see that North has left the door to his study open.

I would have thought him a tidier man. But no, there are papers littered across his desk, books cracked open at the spine on every flat surface. The small, paneled room smells of pipe smoke, dust, old books, and candle wax. North has a straight-backed chair and a bookcase behind the desk. There is a wooden trunk beneath the window, and on the far wall, a side table with a decanter and two crystal glasses. The candles are all burned to an inch, and I reach out to touch the one on his desk. There are flakes of rosemary and lavender in the pooled wax.

They’re mine, I think. I made these.

Of all the things to give me pause. Just a candle. A simple thing. But a reminder that I am a woman who makes and heals, not a woman who snoops and schemes.

But if not me, who? If not now, when?

I turn, intending to leave, but my gaze falls on his desk. It is an orderly sort of chaos. Letters, surveys, and maps are strewn across the polished wood surface. Many of them are in Ephraim’s hand, and all of them relate to North’s work with the Kennebec Proprietors. I recognize the map of Hallowell and the survey of our property.

There is a letter—only partially drafted—in North’s handwriting. I lift it from the desk. Read it aloud. “…As per our discussion last month in Boston, please find the enclosed land surveys of three hundred acres between Mill Creek and Burnt Hill. I think you will find the lumber quantity and access to the river meets your growing needs to supply the shipyards in Boston. I am ready to assume the lease immediately. And, as agreed, I will take ownership of the aforementioned neglected Ballard lease—twelve years to be prorated to myself, and the deed finalized in April. Having a closer proximity to the property will better allow me to supervise the clearing of this forest….”

I stand there, paralyzed, gripping the letter. He has intended to take our land all along. And not just ours. He wants half of Hallowell. The realization is sickening, but I am out of time because I hear the sound of boots on the porch and then the front door swings open.

“Lidia?” North’s voice echoes through the first floor.

He is twelve, perhaps fifteen feet away when I make my decision. My last seconds are spent stuffing the letter into my medical bag. I am at the side table, decanter in hand, when he opens the door to his study.

“What are you doing in here?” North demands, his voice laced with fury and contempt. Beside him, Cicero growls low in his throat.

When I turn, I lift one of his crystal glasses. A finger of amber liquid sloshes at the bottom. “Brandy. For your wife. It will help settle the tonic in her stomach.”

The dog takes a menacing step toward me, and I see a freshly healed wound on his head, a long, jagged pink scar that runs diagonally across his snout. No doubt a run-in with a sharp set of talons.

Well done, Percy, I think.

I do not apologize for being in his study, nor ask his permission as I brush past him and go up the stairs, medical bag tucked in tight beneath my arm. He follows closely behind, furious glare burning into the back of my head as I wake Lidia and help her drink the brandy. Once more I give instruction for the tonic, and again Lidia thanks me for coming.

I neither look at North on my way out of the house, nor do I wish him farewell, for I do not trust myself to speak.

POLLARD’S TAVERN