by Sharon Lee
"Good afternoon, Harin." Becca inclined her head fractionally, ignoring Cook's wink. "I see Cook is taking good care of you."
"And Cook'll take good care of you, too, if you'll let her," that individual said irrepressively. "Just sit you down over there, Miss Becca, and I'll get you a cup of tea to go with one or two of those biscuits. You're getting thinner by the meal. I'm going to start believing that you don't like my cooking!"
Becca blinked, but Cook had already turned toward the teapot. Across the table, Harin stood with head bowed still, which she would do until the Landed told her to do something else. Sighing to herself, Becca went 'round to the other stool and hitched herself up.
"Please sit," she said to Harin, "and tell me how Sonet goes on."
The girl got back on her stool with alacrity, head up, but still not meeting Becca's eyes.
"The mistress is well. There's a sudden fever afoot—three came to us yesterday, and the mistress says that's only the start. Once it gets loose, it will run through every house in the village."
"It will certainly do that," Becca said with feeling. "Has Sonet any idea yet of the cause? We've had such a fine spring that it seems unlikely—Thank you, Cook," she added as a teacup arrived at her elbow.
"The mistress thinks it's the something come down on the spring winds. The winter was too warm, she says. Folk always sicken easy after a gentle winter."
"Yes, I've heard that theory," Becca said, sipping her tea and adding to herself, many times.
"That being so, the mistress wants us to have a good stock ready to dispense, and she wonders if you might have some feverease to spare her."
"Of course, I do!" Becca said. "Come with me, and—"
"After," Cook said firmly, "you've drunk your tea and eaten one of those biscuits. Or two. There's more where those came from, if you finish the plate."
Becca laughed, and slid a glance to Harin. "You see Cook rules me utterly."
"Mrs. Clowder's biscuits are always delicious," Harin said seriously, using Cook's name. She hesitated before picking up her cup and looked at Becca directly over the rim. "It's true that you've lost weight, Miss Rebecca. It's very apparent to one like me, who hasn't seen you in a number of weeks." She sipped her tea, and Becca did the same, astonished as she was.
"The mistress," Harin said eventually, "says that the healer is often the most at risk, because she is trained to look for signs of ill-health in others, and so forgets to look—within."
Conscious of Cook's eye on her, Becca took a biscuit and bit into it. It was a little dry, and not, Becca thought privately, up to Cook's best, but perfectly edible. She had another bite, and then a sip of tea.
"If there is ever anything I can do for you, Miss Rebecca," Harin said so softly Becca had to strain to hear her, "I would be honored by your trust."
Where, Becca thought, had this girl come from?
As if she'd spoken aloud, Harin smiled.
"I hail from Lunitch."
"At the Boundary," Becca murmured. "You must have seen Fey, then?"
"Now and again," Harin said slowly. "You'll be thinking of the gentleman making his stay with Lord Quince?"
"He has . . . rather odd manners, and I wonder if that's usual."
Harin chewed her lip. "The Fey were here before us, so my granny told it. They stayed hidden for a time, watching us and learning our ways, but even so when they first came 'mong us there were misunderstandings and bloodshed. The Border Lord thought the Fey could be taken and used, and he captured himself a pair or three—this is years upon years ago, now, Miss."
Becca nodded, astounded to hear such a spate of words coming from quiet Harin. "But," she asked, "used for what?"
"Well, now. The Fey have their ways—magic some call it. My granny, she just said that the land loved them better than it does us—which only makes sense when you think on it, since they was here well before us, and the land has known them longer."
"So, the Border Lord wanted the Fey to teach him their . . . magic?"
Harin shrugged. "Mayhap. Or he might have wanted to break them to his service. Whatever his intention, and for all the care he'd taken to bind them in nothing other than iron—for it's known that the Fey have an—an allergy—to iron, and prolonged exposure weakens them. For all the lord's care, though, his pair escaped—one through dying, and one through the window, or mayhap through the wall. All they ever found was the dead one, and the coils of chain on the floor."
Becca took a breath. "I'd think that the Fey Board of Governors would have sent an—an envoy—to the Border Lord."
"Aye, but that's not their way."
"What did they do, then?" Becca asked, barely noticing as she reached for another biscuit.
"Do?" Harin raised her cup and sipped, leisurely. "They didn't do anything, Miss Rebecca. To this very day, Fey come 'cross the Border, as the fancy takes 'em. They bring horses to trade, like Lord Quince's guest done. Maybe pottery, or silver work, or carving. They'll come three, four years in a row, then not be seen for seven or more. My granny said the Fey woman she'd bought her best pottery jug from told her that time ran different on the far side of the Border, but my granny didn't know how that could be, Miss Rebecca, and neither do I." She tipped her head, and gave a sly, storyteller's smile. "That jug, though, that she had off the Fey potter? No milk stored in it ever went off, now matter how many days, or how warm the weather. She'd leave it out, on full moon nights, in case any thirsty travelers passed by. She said, though she whispered to me it was the Fey folk she left it out for, to show that the one who lived there meant them no harm. And for everything of that, Miss Rebecca, my granny told us never to trust a Fey, for they're not human folk, and their ways aren't anywhere near the same as ours."
Becca took a breath. "That is . . . quite a story," she said finally. "I think you've missed your calling."
"Oh, the mistress tells stories enough. She says it's a good thing for a healer to have a store of nonsense and fable to babble, to put those who're fretful at ease."
"She may be right," Becca said. "I see I'll need to apply to you for lessons."
Harin shook her head. "Everyone finds their own stories, Miss. You know that."
"Do I? I'd never thought of it." Becca finished her tea and put the cup down, casting an eye at Cook, who was busily pinching the tops onto her pies. "If I've eaten enough to satisfy Cook, we can get that feverease."
"Oh, aye, I'm satisfied," that worthy said, without raising her head from her task. "Until dinner time."
"Feverease on that shelf," Becca said, pointing. "Leave me a cord for my folk here, but take however much you need of the rest. Is there anything else? Aleth? Poppy?"
"No, Miss, just the feverease. The mistress lent half of our store to Tamli back in the fall when half her village went ill in the fall with the swamp-sweats. The season's too early for her to replenish us—and now we have this."
"So we do," Becca said, rubbing her withered arm absently. "Well, let us hope that this fever does not blossom into an epidemic."
"Oh, aye, we're all hoping that," Harin said seriously, "and planning, o'course, for the worst. Which is how the mistress gets her reputation, so she tells me, for being wise."
Becca laughed. "Sonet gets her reputation for being wise from . . . being wise," she said. "Planning for the worst is hardly frivolous."
"True enough." Harin nodded at the cords of dried plants she had laid out on Becca's work table. "These'll do us, Miss, unless it truly is an epidemic."
"Praise harvest, it won't come to that," Becca murmured, as the 'prentice put her bag on the table and pulled out a cloth sack, the top tied firmly with a workmanlike length of cord.
"Mistress sends you this, Miss, in trade."
"Trade? There's no need for that! Sonet can repay the house when her stores allow it, just as—"
"Said you might have more use of it where you're bound than she's likely to have, hereabouts," Harin continued, as if Becca hadn't spoken. "Had it from a cunning man,
she said, in lot with some other exotics. Duainfey, is what the Corland-folk call it. Mistress says to look for it in your northland book, got sketches and the complete list. Use just a leaf-tip for clear seeing. If someone's all in pain and needs release, it's two leaves for an old person and three for a young."
Becca bit her lip. Administering release was not something she looked forward to. During the big sickness she had of course worked at Sonet's side, and stood ready to do everything that was needful. However, Sonet had been clear on the point of protocol: only the healer in charge could offer and administer release.
"Mistress says," Harin continued, putting the sack on the worktable and stowing the cords of feverease into her bag, "it's a rare one, even in the Corlands. These here're rootlings, all dry and ready to plant."
She could not, Becca decided reluctantly, refuse the trade. A medicinal plant rare even in its native land? She would not be the herbalist Sonet had trained her to be, if she did not receive the gift—and learn from it.
"Please tell Sonet that I am very happy to accept the duainfey in trade," she said in a composed voice that fooled Harin not at all, if the sideways glance beneath short, sooty lashes was any indication.
"That's what she'd want, Miss, which you know and I do—having each of us stood her 'prentice." She slung the bag over her shoulder and gave Becca a grave smile.
"I hope to learn as deeply as you have, if you'll hear me say so, Miss Becca. Between you and the mistress, I've lofty examples to guide me."
Almost, Becca laughed. But Harin looked so grave and serious that she swallowed her merriment and instead gave the girl a careful smile.
"You will outstrip us both," she said, the merely pleasant words heavy with a conviction she had scarcely intended. Are you, she asked herself crankily, a future-seer?
Harin was bowing, even deeper than her usual, but not before Becca had seen the blush staining her brown cheeks.
"Thank you, Miss Beauvelley," she said breathlessly. "Thank you."
Chapter Seven
Becca lay staring up at the dark ceiling. The breeze murmured gently through the curtains, bringing her scents from the midnight garden below her window, the froglings paean to their pond, and the occasional giggle of a night hawk.
Ordinarily, such homey sounds soothed her into slumber. Tonight, they irritated. Moreover, her left arm ached; she was too warm—and too cool when she pushed the coverlet aside. Her pillow was lumpy, her nightgown chafed, and she was not, in any case, sleepy.
Though she was, she owned, infinitely tired of Caro's dance; a sorry circumstance, indeed, as the event was yet three days ahead of her.
Sighing, Becca gave up on sleep entirely, cast the covers aside, wriggled into her robe, stirred the fire, lit a candle, and curled into the battered chaise, Sonet's herbal on her lap.
It was a thin book; much thinner than Sonet's ledger, from which Becca had copied the pages to begin her own book, as an apprentice. The green ink was so strong it seemed that the entries, written in Sonet's clear and careful script, and the careful renderings of leaf, root and berry seemed to float slightly above the page.
Bending above the vibrant page, Becca read of the wonders of the herb alamister, which grew in the ice moors, and was efficacious as a sleeping draught; and of bentolane which, when made into a tea and drunk every day, prevented pregnancy; of cadmyon, used in elixir to soothe coughing. Of the dourtree, the bruised fresh leaves repelling biting insects, while the dried leaves disgusted mice and rats; steeping the bark produced a tea that gave relief from pain, and wine could be made from its berries. It grew along river beds, where it set shallow roots, and resisted cultivation.
Certainly, an altogether useful plant, Becca thought, around a tight feeling in her chest. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to calm herself, as her riding instructor had taught her to do, so that her unruly emotions did not confuse her mount.
Her chest somewhat easier, she opened her eyes and turned the next page.
Duainfey, read the bold notation. The leaves, dried and steeped into tea, purifies the blood. The dried and crushed blossoms may be added to watered wine, or made into a sachet for the taming of unruly thoughts. The fresh leaves, taken by mouth, give surcease from pain.
The page blurred. Becca blinked to clear her vision, and a single tear fell among the green letters, like a rain drop into a welcoming garden. Lower lip caught between her teeth, she blotted the spot with her sleeve, as even more tears fell.
Gasping, she closed the book, and set it aside, closed her eyes and tried to breathe evenly and deeply.
I will not cry, she told herself, the mantra that she had devised for herself in the long months after her accident. I will not cry. I will do my part without complaint.
She was panting, her chest so constricted she felt she must surely strangle, and still the tears flowed, faster, wracking sobs now, as if she mourned a death.
"No," she moaned. "I cannot go there—"
And yet, if she did not—How could she not? Refuse, after all, to marry the man who would make all as it ought to be: Herself a respectable wife, Caroline free to marry, her father rid of the sight of her and the daily reminder of his failure to rule a mere daughter? Would she run away entirely, and—and live as a wild woman in the hunting park?
Becca hiccuped, caught between a sob and a giggle.
No, she thought, using the sleeve of her robe to mop her face. No, Sir Jennet had been accepted, and so must the Corlands. She would . . . She would simply need to think practically. Was the climate she was bound for cold? Then she must see to it that her trousseau contained warm clothing, and plenty of it. Blankets and quilts—Mother's aid must be enlisted, to suggest such items as bride's gifts. She would need to—
Why, she would need to talk to the man, when she saw him at the dance, and—and be frank regarding her concerns. Perhaps—no, surely—he would be able to advise her, even, perhaps, assist her. It was, she told herself carefully, the old, useless pride that led to these frights and starts. Had she not resolved to ask for help when it was needed, and to do so with good grace? And if she could not ask for help from her affianced husband . . .
And, yet . . . ice moors, and a land so inhospitable that even aleth would not grow—It was enough to take the heart from anyone.
She swallowed and put her hand on Sonet's book, recalling that there was another source of aid. Sonet was from the Corlands. Surely, she would have advice beyond herb lore, if Becca would simply ask her. It would take asking, of course, just as it had when she had been Sonet's 'prentice. But, she reminded herself sternly, Rebecca Beauvelley was not too proud to ask for help.
Granted, the next few days were overburdened with preparation for Caro's dance, but—after, she would certainly call upon Sonet. In fact . . .
She frowned at the notion stirring in her mind, the worn cover of the northland herbal gritty against her palm. Perhaps there was another way. She would, of course, still need to leave her family and her land. But she need not go so far as the Corlands, and she need not be married.
Indeed, if she jilted Sir Jennet, she would have ruined her chances of ever marrying.
She closed her eyes against a new rising of tears. Like any properly brought up young woman, she had supposed that someday she would of course wed, bear children and preside over her husband's household. Until the accident, she had never doubted that future, nor her desire for it.
The accident had—changed everything.
"You, Miss Beauvelley," she whispered, "have far too many thoughts in your head. Some worldly advice might not go amiss before you continue further down this path."
The nearest source of worldly advice, however, was—hopefully unlike his sister!—asleep in his bed. But she assured herself; the matter would wait as long as tomorrow morning.
And as if taking that simple decision had released all of her worries, Becca yawned, suddenly very tired, indeed. She uncoiled clumsily from the chaise and went over to the bed, not bothering
to remove her robe before she lay down.
Chapter Eight
"Good morning, Dickon."
The viscount looked up from his papers with a blink and a laugh. "Now, here's a surprise! Don't you know better than to beard a gentleman in his study, Lady Rebecca?"
"I do, actually," said Becca, easing the door shut behind her. "But I particularly wanted your advice."
Dickon cocked a blond eyebrow. "You could have asked it at breakfast, you know. I'm sure it would have been much more entertaining than Caro's transports and agonies over this damned—beg your pardon, Becca—dance of hers."
