by Lana Popovic
“I can ride,” I retort stiffly. “And mend my own bones just fine, should the need befall me.”
“See that it doesn’t, for your own good.” He spurs the horse into a canter, and soon we flash between the trees and onto the main road ahead.
As we ride across Sarvar’s rolling plains, shrouded in night, I find myself tilting my face reflexively toward the sky, searching for the moon. I always know where the moon is, even when I cannot see it for the clouds. The midwife’s sight, my mother used to call it, this knowing. The moon holds sway over all women, over our monthly fluxes and the cycles of our wombs, waxing, waning, ripening with child. When I was small, she’d take me to the lake with her long after nightfall—only once my father and brothers fell asleep, my sister too little to join us, too. This gathering was not for men, she said.
I’d help her harvest the herbs that grew by the banks, the ones best pulled after midnight.
Before we began, she’d put her hands over my eyes, her rough palms smelling of valerian and yarrow. Back then, her hands were still unmarred by pain, her fingers fine and nimble. “Find the moon, Annacska,” she’d whisper in my ear. “Go on—tell me where it is.”
I’d tip my face up and scan the sky through closed eyes. And then there it would be—a pale, blazing imprint of an orb, against the muddy darkness of my eyelids. It had a halo to it, like the dark opposite of flame, a corona of tendrils that writhed and pulled. I could feel the way they tugged at everything. At the rippling surface of the lake, the sap inside the herbs we’d gathered in our aprons, even the pit of my own belly.
I told her, once, that I could see it in this way, thinking she could, too. Her mouth had thinned, eyes cinching at the corners. “You’re running wild with imagining, Annacska,” she’d said lightly, but tension crackled through her tone, like lightning forking through clouds before it struck the ground. “You do not truly see such a strange, devilish thing, do you?”
I’d denied it, frightened by her fear. Most likely she was right, and I only imagined that I could see it because she’d taught me to track the moon so well, to follow its steady progress across the heavens. And the sight did fade as I grew older and willfully tamped it down. But sometimes I still think I spy its echo in the living things I tend to, in uncut herbs and vegetables and even our spavined goat, and especially the ailing who call on me and my mother.
Sometimes I even let it guide my hand to where it is needed most.
I’m so rapt that I barely notice our gradual slowing, the changing of our course as we trot into another silent, drowsing village, much smaller than my own. The countess’s man pulls the horse to a halt in front of a small wattle-and-daub cottage with a straw-thatched roof, so cramped it nearly makes our own look grand. A fat plume of smoke wafts from the chimney hole, and I frown, wondering why their hearth would be blazing in the dead of night when everyone with sense tamps their fires down to embers.
“But where are we?” I ask, misgivings roiling up. “I thought I was wanted at the Nadasdy keep.”
“Never said any such thing,” he rumbles in my ear. “As to what the countess needs, she’ll tell you so herself—she’s inside, waiting.”
Confusion ratchets up inside me. Why would the countess be here, in this grim hovel? Before I can ask, he dismounts with a thud and unceremoniously hauls me off the mare’s back, without bothering to wait for me to attempt the landing on my own. I pointedly straighten my disheveled dress, casting him a glare as I turn to the door. I can hear the faint, high note of muffled weeping from within even before I swing it open.
The inside is stifling with the heat of a roaring fire, candles clustered thick and dripping on every surface, throwing trembling stripes of shadow over the walls. I spot the countess first, on her knees on the beaten-earth floor with her skirts rucked up around her. She kneels beside a low, shabby pallet, clutching the hand of a flush-faced little boy. Her head lifts at the sound of the door, and I’m struck by her salt-streaked face, the skeins of hair unraveling from their complicated twist beneath a net.
“Anna Darvulia,” she says faintly, terror and relief coiling together in her tone. “You’ve finally come, thank our maker. I was beginning to contemplate despair.”
I dip into a curtsy, then hasten over to the bedside. “Of course, my lady,” I murmur. “Please forgive the wait. He’s—this boy is ill, I take it?”
She hooks a piercing look at me, hearing my silent question. “His name is Gabor. He’s my son,” she adds bluntly. Her eyes alight on me, intent as a falcon plummeting toward its prey. She waits to see what I will say.
I catch my breath; I cannot help it. “Your son,” I repeat, careful to temper my tone lest I betray any censure even as my mind races ahead. He is clearly not Lord Nadasdy’s son as well, else we would all have been treated to the fanfare that surrounds the arrival of an heir. Besides which, this boy looks to be nearly five, only a little younger than my sister. He would have been conceived and delivered years before the countess’s marriage.
Whoever this boy’s father is, her pregnancy must have been concealed.
She rolls her eyes skyward, as if she finds my hesitation deeply tiresome. “His father was a peasant,” she snaps. “Our farrier’s son, back home in Ecsed. I was very young, and he had a winsome face. And a back like one of the thoroughbreds his father broke for us. I—briefly and misguidedly—believed that I loved him. He was disinclined to refuse his mistress, and that is how Gabor came to be. I could not keep him, of course, so he became my wet nurse’s son.”
“I—I see, m’lady,” I stammer, taken aback by how baldly she speaks of this transgression, as if taking pleasure with a man unwedded is her divine right. I’m even more astonished that she would see fit to share her indiscretion with me.
“You wonder of my husband, and why I am being so candid with you,” she says, as if she can read my mind. “No, Ferenc does not know of Gabor. No one does, save for myself, my mother back home, and Zorka. And now yourself—only because I need you to understand how imperative it is that he should live.” She scrutinizes me for a long moment, lifting an eyebrow. “I trust this will remain between us. Am I correct in thinking so?”
“Y-yes, m’lady,” I choke out. “Of course. But, why call for me at all? My mother is the one who—”
She slices through my question with an imperious hand. “She is not the one they speak of, at least not any longer.” Her eyes lock onto mine, coal-black, boring into me. “You are. It is known that you’re a witch, more deft with herbs than any mortal has the right to be.”
“A witch?” My voice climbs so high it fairly squeaks, my heart stuttering painfully with the accusation. “My lady, I assure you, I am no such thing! I’m a midwife’s daughter, that is all! I’ve studied with my mother, learned from her as any woman could, not—”
“I question what you could have learned from your mother without ever wielding pen and paper, or consulting the recorded wisdom of the ancients,” she snaps, rounding on me, terrible in her fear for her son. “But what you are matters not a whit to me—as long as you can save him. So, tell me, can you? Or are you as useless as my lackwit physician has already proven himself to be?”
I wring my hands together to halt their trembling, draw a long breath. Whatever she thinks of me, her son needs me now, and I will not fail him. “How long has he been ill?” I ask.
Her eyes drop to the boy, and she sweeps a tender hand over his clammy brow, clearing the damp ruck of hair away from his face. The boy whimpers under her touch, pursing his rosebud mouth. He is beautiful, raven-haired and milk-skinned with features fine as his mother’s, the stamp of her clear upon him. His father seems to have barely left a mark.
“Just over a day,” she replies, her voice dropping to a whisper. “He burns with fever, thrashes in his sleep. Zorka—the woman who raises him—will know more of how it begun.”
There is movement by the tiny hearth, from the patch of shadow my eye skimmed over before the countess drew it. A smal
l, unprepossessing woman flinches forward, ducking her head to me in greeting. She must have heard what the countess called me, and I’d wager “witch” holds weight with her.
“He was playing just yesterday, the poor little mite,” she breathes, her eyes darting between me and the countess. Her fear is a palpable thing, and I realize immediately that she is terrified for herself as much as Gabor—for what will befall her should this illness claim him. That is why the cottage fairly blazes with light, her attempt at warding off the impending shadow of his death. “And then he began complaining that his feet hurt and his head ached, that his belly was sour. I did not—I should have put him to bed immediately, but I had sewing work yet to be done.” She closes her eyes, her lips trembling. “By last night, he was fevered thus. He would not stir when I tried to wake him.”
I nod briskly, already shuffling through possibilities. “I will examine the boy, then,” I say, flitting a glance at the countess. She nods her permission, her eyes still fastened on him. “Will you fetch me some water, Zorka? And a clean cloth.”
Once she does, I scrub my hands thoroughly, rinsing off the dirt of horse and travel. My mother has long since claimed that clean labors unfold more smoothly, so I have made a habit of it even when tending to other ills. Under the lady’s avid gaze, I run my hands searchingly over her son. I peel back his eyelids, peering at the red-riddled whites and the pink tissues that line them, lever his mouth open to observe his tongue—white-furred and dry, his breath fanning furnace-hot across my face—and prod gently at the tender nodules beneath his jaw. I listen to his heart and lungs, both blessedly clear, though his pulse flutters like tiny wings against my ear. I then press my fingers into his abdomen, searching for stiffness and finding none.
“Zorka, tell me,” I say, firing questions like arrows at her. “What water do you drink? What has he eaten in the past few days? Has anyone else fallen ill?”
As she stutters her responses, a picture forms in my mind, taking on a pattern of its own accord.
“I’ll need to strip him,” I tell them. Zorka and the countess exchange perplexed glances, but neither questions me. Zorka strips off the child’s sweat-soaked nightshirt, fine linen subtly trimmed with lace, lovelier than anything I’ve ever touched; clearly a gift from the boy’s blood mother. I pore over his front, finding nothing but the collection of welts, scratches, and bug bites customary for an active little boy. Puzzled, I have her flip him over, but his backside is no more revealing.
“What is it?” the countess demands, her voice quivering with impatience. “What are you looking for?”
“Perhaps I’m wrong,” I murmur, frowning as I slide my hands down his legs. “But there should be—Ah!”
As my fingers skim over his rough, dirt-encrusted soles, the boy shudders in his sleep, letting out a mewling cry. I freeze, then press my thumb into his instep. Beneath the dirt, it’s swollen and tender, hot to the touch.
Gabor releases another muted howl, his foot twitching against my grip.
“Oh, what is it?” the countess cries, distraught at his pain. “What is hurting him?”
I dip the cloth into the pail of water Zorka brought me, then cleanse his foot as gently as I’m able. He clearly runs about barefoot, which is why I did not see it at once. But when the mud and dirt scour away, they reveal a circle of puffy, reddened skin—with a fat black thorn embedded at its center, pus seeping sickly around it.
The sight would turn many a stomach, but not mine. Nor the countess’s, it seems. Instead, she cranes for a closer look, smooth forehead furrowing with interest. “He did say his feet were hurting, did he not, Zorka? But a thorn?” she demands, nonplussed. “A mere thorn is sickening him unto the brink of death? How is that possible, Anna?”
“It is not the thorn itself, my lady,” I whisper, my belly lurching with dread as I tilt his sole toward her. “See where these red lines fork away from the wound, like little rivers? The puncture has allowed dirt to enter his blood, taint and sicken it. It festers now.”
“Blood itself can sicken?” she asks in bemused, almost marveling tones. “It is meant to be the sanguine humor, robust and enduring, is it not? But perhaps that is why his cheeks glow so brightly.” She tilts her head speculatively. “How strange, that such a taint could bring an even greater beauty to him. I would not have thought it possible.”
“I know nothing of humors, sanguine or otherwise, my lady,” I say, somewhat bewildered that she would be considering her boy’s rosy cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
“No matter,” she responds with a dismissive wave. “Now is not the time to consider Galen. In the absence of a dead philosopher to guide us, what can you do for my son?”
“I’ll do what I can, m’lady,” I say heavily. “I will prepare a poultice for the wound, as well as a tisane for him to drink. The rest—I fear it will be up to him more than me.”
“Will he live?” she asks, somber. “I warn you, do not dare lie merely to appease me. If you do I will know, and it will be the worse for you than any unwelcome truth.”
“He will have to fight to live, my lady,” I respond truthfully. I would not have lied to her even if she hadn’t cautioned me against it; I’m not against a well-advised deception, but I can sense her nose for truth. “And fight hard. But I will be by his side, to help as much as I am able.”
She considers me a moment longer, her dauntless gaze holding fast to mine. Whatever she sees in my eyes must be enough to sway her, for she gives a curt nod.
“Do it, then,” she orders. “My trust is in you, Anna. You have my leave to do what you must to save him.”
Chapter Two
The Fever and the Coin
We hold vigil over the boy through the night, which seems to unfurl like some endless flower, hours unfolding after hours like black petals without end. It is one of the longest I have ever known.
Gabor burns and thrashes, whimpers at my gentle ministrations. His mewls of pain remind me of the sound Zsuzsi the kitten made when that foul little boy burned her tail years ago. It isn’t the first time that I’ve thought it, that cats and babes sound so alike when they suffer. I do my best not to attend to the noise of his torment, tending instead to the poultices, refreshing them every hour. I’ve crushed honey, garlic, goldenseal, and clove into a sticky paste and smeared it on the wound, and every so often I tip a hot tisane of steeped willow bark and garlic past his lips, though he sputters and flops like a landed fish to evade me. When I must, I pinch his little nose and put my hand over his mouth to make him swallow.
“What a brutal thing it is,” the countess remarks, watching me with her avid gaze. “The way you must hurt to heal. Your heart must be hardened like a stone against others’ pain.”
“I do what I need to, my lady,” I respond softly. Of course my heart is not hardened—I feel an answering stab in my own gut each time the boy moans. But it is my conviction, not my compassion, that the countess needs to see while I struggle to save her son.
We watch, and we wait. In the hours before dawn, his fever spikes and I fear that we will lose him. Beside me the countess turns bone-white. She even reaches for my hand as if we are kin, squeezing it tight, desperate for what little comfort I can offer.
Then the boy’s fever breaks. He begins to stir, asking Zorka for stewed fruit and milk. His eyes, when open, are exactly like his mother’s, black and shining as obsidian. I don’t particularly like small children, but he’s undeniably appealing. Even barely recovered, he reaches for his adoptive mother’s neck and entreats her with kisses, his eyes glinting with sharp curiosity when he looks at me.
“Feed him clear broth, and keep giving him the tisane,” I instruct Zorka. “It’s foul, he won’t want it, but you must insist. And keep his foot bandaged and clean, the poultice refreshed whenever it loses savor. You’ve seen how I make it, haven’t you? I’ll leave you enough herbs to last you several days. After that, his body will flush the sickness of its own accord.”
Zorka nods vigorously, aglo
w with relief, her eyes fixed on the boy. I am heartened to see she loves him for more than just the fact that her life clearly hinges on his well-being.
“Thank you,” the countess says quietly when I rise from the bedside and join her by the door. Once the boy woke, she withdrew. Unwilling, I think, to disturb or confuse him with her presence. “Your clever hands have preserved my son. I will not soon forget your service.”
“It was no trouble, my lady,” I respond dutifully, though I sway on my feet, half-dumb with exhaustion. “It is what I do.”
Her lips purse with distress, and she cups my face like a concerned mother or sister, though her palms are like petals against my cheeks, far softer than my own mother’s or sister’s have ever been. She smells just as I remember, of dark, luxuriant flowers I do not recognize. “You are dead on your feet, poor thing,” she croons, sweeping her thumbs over my cheekbones. “I’ll have Janos return you to your home. He’ll have a purse of coin for you, as well.”
“Oh, no, I could not, it isn’t necessary—”
“Of course it is, don’t be daft,” she counters briskly, her hands tightening around my face. “You’ve saved my son, my own living reflection. How could I leave you unpaid after such a service? Now go, and rest.” Her eyes hold mine, gentle but relentless. “You are quite remarkable, Anna Darvulia, with your healer’s heart of stone. I hope that our paths cross again, and soon.”
I can think of nothing to do but nod.
I barely remember the rough ride home with the sun cresting the horizon, or the welcome weight of the coin bag that Janos drops onto my palm. My father has already lumbered off to his workshop for the day, where he will pummel metal with more enthusiasm than precision, leaving me free to drop into the bed I share with Klara. She nestles against me with Zsuzsi clutched to her chest, her corn-silk hair tickling my mouth, until her warmth lulls me into a dreamless sleep.
