Page 2

I reach for his wrist.

He tries to hide his hand behind his back.

“Do that again,” I say, “and I’ll tell everyone in the market you’re frightened of a human healer.”

“I’m frightened of what the healer charges.”

“I seem to recall someone returning my payment.”

“A lapse in judgment.”

I catch his wrist before he can retreat. His pulse beats too quickly against my fingertips. Bran watches my face while I count. The market noise continues around us, but several nearby people glance over. Privacy is a luxury Lowtown surrendered generations ago.

“How long have you been coughing?”

“It started this morning.”

“Try again.”

“Yesterday.”

I raise my pale blue eyes to his.

“Three days,” he admits.

“And the fever?”

“There’s no fever.”

“Your skin disagrees.”

“I’ve been hauling wood.”

“You were coughing last week.”

“That was smoke.”

“You blame smoke whenever you don’t want treatment.”

“Smoke causes coughing.”

“So does lung fever.”

The humor leaves his expression.

Lung fever took six people last winter. Three were children. We had enough rirzed to ease their breathing, but not enough vushka bark to break every fever. Choosing who received a full dose remains the ugliest duty I have ever performed.

I release Bran’s wrist and search through my basket. Beneath the tinctures are small packets wrapped in waxed cloth. I select one marked with two charcoal lines and hold it out.

His hand remains at his side.

“What does that cost?”

“Nothing.”

“Fiona.”

“Brew half of it in hot water tonight. The other half tomorrow morning. Keep the steam near your face while it steeps.”