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“Very good,” he replies, “then ‘tis best to be on your way. Good morrow, mistress.”
I lock eyes with Sir Victor. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t move. But he nods, ever so slightly. Chills prick my arms. If I didn’t know better, I’d believe him to be smiling. I turn on my heels and head toward the street.
“Sir Victor,” a guard shouts, “you are under arrest for treason for falsehoods against the king.”
They drag him away, and I run as far and as fast as my feet will carry me.
CHAPTER 10
If I go to the bakery now, I will never make curfew. So, I turn toward home with an empty belly and a head full of questions. My heart is kicking so hard in my chest, I fear I may collapse. Who was that knight, and how can he know anything about me? Maybe he is simply a lunatic, rambling nonsense once again like that day in the forest. The villagers know I’m the match girl—it would’ve been easy for him to learn my name. But something in my soul is still uneasy. This Sir Victor was speaking of my heart’s only desire, the very thing I’ve longed for throughout my entire life. That is the one truth about his words that I can’t so easily dismiss.
I stop at the vegetable stand and purchase an assortment of items for a stew. I buy some apples as well. Gram enjoys baked apples. I need to get home, busy myself with the stew and forget about the rogue knight. And as badly as I want to tell Gram about my encounter, I know it would only upset her. So, I will keep this day’s events to myself and make my way toward home.
“Gram,” I call into the cottage when I enter. “Gram, where are you?”
I look in the apothecary, but she’s not there. I drop the pouch of vegetables and apples on the table, and I hear it. A deluge of coughing assaults my ears. She has never sounded so terrible.
I rush to her bedside. “Gram, I’m here.”
But she doesn’t hear me. Her head is so hot, it burns my hand when I touch it. I tug the covers up to her chin. She is unaware of my presence. She is mumbling nonsense, the fever obviously in control of her faculties. I need to tame the fever, need to ease the coughing.
I run to the kitchen and retrieve the rags from the cabinet. I dip them in the water barrel and carry them back to the bedroom. I place a cool rag on her forehead and neck. She startles from the coldness but doesn’t remove them. I add another layer of blankets. She needs to sweat the fever out. If I don’t get her temperature controlled soon, I fear the worst could happen. Fever can equal death, and I’m not losing my gram. Not this night.
Her cough is still prevalent, but I must control the fever first. I find the fever elixir I need in the apothecary and manage to get some into Gram. I remove the rags and freshen them, then place them back on Gram.
“Thank you, Milla,” she mumbles.
There she is. Good, we’re makingprogress.
I hurry to the kitchen and start the vegetable stew to boiling. Gram will need a hot meal when the fever passes. I go between the bedroom and kitchen, checking on Gram and tending the stew. I stoke the fire in the hearth, keeping the cottage warm and free of drafts. It’s going to be a long night. I steep some thyme tea. It will aid in quieting Gram’s cough once the fever dies. I’m still busily stirring the stew when I hear Gram say my name and then cough.
I join her, pulling a chair near her bedside. “Gram, how are you feeling?”
Her voice is frail, “How long have I been sleeping?”
“I’m not sure, but you were feverish when I arrived home from market.” I feel her forehead. “You’re much cooler now, praise the gods. You had me worried.”
She starts coughing again. I fold my hands in my lap, waiting for the fit to pass. They are becoming more frequent.
“I’m sorry,” she says when she musters the strength to speak again. “I know ‘tis an annoyance.”
Her apology shatters my heart. “Never be sorry for being ill, Gram. It’s not your fault.”
“Your compassion is a gift.” She reaches for my hand and I take hers, placing it against my cheek. “What is that heavenly smell?” she adds.
“Vegetable stew, and I steeped you some tea.”
“You are a godsend. Will you fetch me a bowl please, dear? I am famished.”
“Of course.”
The glassiness in her eyes is not from tears. It is from the illness and her age, and it frightens me more than Sir Malek and an entire legion of rogues. My gram is slipping away a little more with every morrow. No matter how tightly I hold to her, time is the perfect thief.
I open the jar of black beetroot, the smell wafting around my nose and I fan it away. I take a bite from the bowl of stew on the apothecary table in front of me. I was starving by the time I got Gram settled. She is finally resting. Her cough is better but still not completely quiet. The beetroot and honey poultice should help. I am beyond exhausted, but she needs the poultice, so I will remain in the apothecary, blending the ingredients until the paste is the right consistency. The pestle is digging into my hand, but I press it harder against the mortar. No rest for the weary. I lift the bowl and drink the broth from my stew, my rumbling stomach ever grateful after practically gnawing through my backbone all day.
My mind drifts to Sir Victor and the look on his handsome face as the guards surrounded him. What will happen to him now that he is accused of treason? Surely he is a madman. That is why he is now in the custody of the guards, even though he was considered one of them merely hours ago. His words to me were surely falsehoods, as much as his words about our good king. He doesn’t know me, has no knowledge of my lineage. How can he know me when I don’t even know myself?
When the poultice looks to be ready, I wipe my hands on the front of my apron and take a fortifying breath. I pull a match from my chemise and strike it against the flintstone on the table. I watch the glow for a moment and close my eyes. I keep the wish inside my head, in the secret places that are mine alone. I blow out the glowing flame before it reaches my fingers.Like matches forwishes…
