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“What will we do?” she finally blurted. “If no one can be found—”

“Don’t say that,” Graeme said. “Fiona will be healed.”

Typical Graeme. He never wanted to hear a bad word spoken, as if fearing something would make the deed come true. What other choice did they have but to hope and pray? But she would think only good thoughts, for Graeme’s sake. Fiona would be healed. Fiona would be healed. Fiona—

“Morgan!” She ran to the maid who stood quietly by the old woman’s side, holding her frail hand. “Do you remember the boy at Lyndwood, the one who followed Allie around as if she were his mama?”

“The marshal’s nephew?”

“Aye.” Gillian started pacing again, excited by the thought.

“Gillian, come here,” Graeme said.

When she went to him, her husband merely grabbed her hand. She looked at him in confusion until she realized her walking back and forth worried him. Despite his assurances that all would be well, his face was nearly as pale as Morgan’s.

“Graeme,” she said with as much confidence as she could muster. “Fiona will not die today.”

He didn’t look convinced. And neither was she, but if he could will good things, then so could she.

“Fiona will not die today. Do you hear me?” She turned to the woman who had welcomed her from that very first day. “Fiona, you may not leave us. I’ve much to learn about Highgate. You said yourself Morgan is only passable as lady’s maid.”

Morgan looked up, and Gillian shrugged. Mayhap she should not have said that. Though Fiona had said it fondly.

“She needs you. Highgate needs you.”

“My lady,” Morgan pressed, “the boy?”

She’d nearly forgotten. “Oh, aye. Do you remember two summers ago when the boy did much the same as Fiona? Simply dropped as if someone had clunked him on the head?”

Morgan nodded. “I do, but—”

“I saw it happen. Like her, he had no other ailments—”

“But, my lady, he was just a young boy. And Fiona . . .”

She looked at the old woman as if to say the two patients were very different. And while that was true, something told Gillian she was right. She tried to remember what Lyndwood’s physician had said. The boy had experienced a similar event before. The first time, his lips had gone blue and his hands had developed a tremor.

They’d called the priest, thinking the boy possessed. Of course, that was not the case, and he’d healed just fine after being treated with . . .

Fiona would do the same.

“Morgan, we need rue.”

She and the maid stared at one another before Morgan fled in search of an herb Gillian prayed they grew at Highgate.

Gillian went to Fiona’s side and took the maid’s place. Graeme joined her there. She was no healer, and Gillian wasn’t even sure how to administer the herb. But they had to try. Neither she nor Graeme spoke until Morgan returned in a rush. When she handed her a potent-smelling blue-green herb, Gillian wordlessly crushed a bit of it into the palm of her hand.

At least she knew the bitter smell meant only a small amount should be given. Would Fiona take it in this state? Would it be too much? Too little?

“Open her mouth,” she said to no one in particular. When Graeme did so without question, Gillian placed the crushed herb under the maid’s tongue, just as she’d seen Lyndwood’s healer do many times before.

And then they waited.

After what seemed like days, Fiona’s eyes fluttered open.

“Fiona,” Graeme said, the relief in his voice making Gillian want to weep.

The woman took a deep breath and opened her eyes fully. “Where am I?”