I work by candlelight, trying to find lilies and anise and common rue and every single other plant I can think of or find in my books, until I’ve soaked up all of the remedy. I’ve tested against the humors strips, both phlegmatic and melancholic, but no reaction to either. I still don’t know what is in Silas’s elixir. The only unusual ingredient that elicited any kind of reaction at all was lady’s mantle, and even that might be an anomaly, the result was so low. I’ve been working it so long I’m sure I can smell a hint of sulfur in it, and something metallic. What is it?
I scan the tabletop, the mess of paper and droppers and charts and dishes sprawled across it. I take the bottle Silas gave me and look at it. Two drops left. Tomorrow is the last night of the full moon, so for now I just need one drop for her … And I know I’m getting closer. I must be.
I take the gamble, squeezing out another drop. I test again for lady’s mantle, allowing the elements strip to leach away some of the miracle liquid. Again the strip darkens, barely, not conclusive, not at all, and I throw it to the floor. Useless.
I push away from the table, forgetting to be quiet, and freeze when the scrape of the bench splits the silence open. But the hut stays mercifully still. I force myself to take a break, eating the last of the soup straight from the pipkin without bothering to heat it, then washing it up and hanging it back over the fire. I need to step back, that’s all. I’m too close to it. The question is, do I keep trying here, or do I try begging Silas to tell me what it is?
Making up my mind, I stand and reach for my cloak. I’ll have to be so careful not to be seen, by either soldiers or Unwin, but if Silas can do it then there’s no reason I can’t.
When I open the door, Silas is standing there, hand raised to knock.
He looks me up and down and then edges past me, into the hut, and I close the door, hearing him suck his breath through his teeth as I do. He pushes his hood back and turns to look at me, his eyes sending a punch of shock through me. I’d forgotten, already, how they burned.
“You’ve been busy,” he says, his voice flat. “You’re wasting your time. And the potion.”
“Then save me from wasting more and tell me what’s in it.”
His expression becomes closed, his gold eyes dimming. “Be content, Errin, with what you have. I’ve already broken several vows by giving it to you. I can’t tell you any more.”
“She slept through the night, Silas,” I say. “She looked at me, this morning. She touched me. And if it’s because of your potion, if it can bring her back, then I need to know what it is. Silas, I need it. Please don’t dangle this in front of me and then take it away. I’ve lost too much.”
I turn away, feeling an itch in my throat and burning behind my eyes. Hopelessness bubbles up and I have to clench my jaw to stop from crying.
“Errin?” he says and I shake my head. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I wanted to help.”
Then a hand, tentative, on my shoulder, and I freeze.
I hold my breath. The weight of his hand feels like a ballast and I have to fight to not lean into it. I’ve never been able to figure out how I feel about him; sometimes he infuriates me, other times … I know that sometimes his voice does strange things to my stomach if I’m not braced for it. I know I’ve spent far too much time looking at his mouth, and not because it was the only way to read his feelings before I saw him uncloaked. I’m sure that the mysterious man in my dreams is my mind’s attempt at creating a more responsive version of Silas, which is so humiliating.
Because I know the real Silas has no feelings for me. Not like that.
* * *
Four weeks after we began our strange working relationship, I went to his cottage to deliver an order, a harmless camphor-and-mint rub. Nothing special.
I was tired to the bone; between my strange dreams and my mother’s first transformation, I was sleepwalking through the days. I’d been consumed with trying to take care of us both and make sure no one in the village had seen our weakness, going to the woods and gathering, making endless potions to try to break her malaise, treating the scratches on her arms, foraging for food and trading where I could. From dawn until midnight I worked, never stopping, pushing Lief and Papa far from my mind, knowing I couldn’t afford to break down, too.
But as the moon approached I’d noticed her eyes following me around the room, her fingers curling into claws. And then I’d accidentally locked her in overnight, and saved my own life. I’d already endured two long and increasingly traumatic nights broken by her cursing and scratching and slamming, only for her to fall silent and lifeless when the sun rose. I’d been poring over the old stories in the book from the moment we knew the Sleeping Prince had returned, so I’d known the name for what it was that she was becoming, with red eyes and a vicious tongue. I’d recognized it.
I hadn’t fully believed it until she’d knocked me to the ground and chipped my tooth.
So when I’d taken Silas his ointment, I hadn’t been in my right mind. It’s not an excuse; I was scared, and exhausted, and grieving. In the last two moons my entire world had changed, and so when he’d offered the smallest kindness I’d … I’d misunderstood.
He invited me into his cottage, as he always did, and as ever he held out his hand for the small jar, and I did the same for the coin. I noticed from our very first meeting that he always wore his gloves and his hood, and that he went to pains not to touch me. So I was surprised when his fingers had reached under my chin to tilt my face up toward his.
“You look tired,” he said, the rumble of his voice stirring something inside me.
“I’ve been busy.” I tried for a smile and his fingers tightened on my jaw.
“What happened to your tooth?” He peered at the chip in my front tooth and I’d closed my mouth, trying to keep it covered when I replied.
“I fell.”
“Into a door?” His voice was dark and angry.
“No, Silas, a floor. A real one. After a real fall.”
“At home?”
“Yes.” I pulled my face from his hand, unnerved by his questions and by my own strange response to being so close to him. I was aware of him in a way I hadn’t been aware of anyone before, and I was aware of me, too, aware of how tall he was, how angular compared to me. How close he stood. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my face when he spoke. I could smell him, a faint scent of mint and old incense.
He chewed his lip, his head tilted. Then he spoke again. “You would tell me, if someone hurt you, wouldn’t you?”
At that I burst into tears. I couldn’t stop myself, couldn’t cope at all with this small kindness. He was still mostly a stranger, a customer, but he was the first person to be nice, or what had passed for nice, to me in moons. I threw myself at him, burying myself in his chest and sobbing. Then, miraculously, he folded his arms around me and held me. He kept his arms loose, but he held me until I stopped shaking, letting me weep onto his tunic. He stroked my hair throughout, his fingers tangling in it, smoothing it, gently separating out the knots. It felt so good.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice a rumble against my ear.
I looked up, into the shadowy depths of his hood, as he waited for my answer.
I’d kissed him.
I’d never kissed anyone before, but I kissed him, moving suddenly to press my lips against his. For one, two, three beats of my heart we stayed like that, my mouth on his. I’d thought that his lips had moved against mine gently, so soft it might have been the brush of wings. I’d thought he was kissing me back.
Then he’d pushed me away with such force that I’d almost fallen.
“No,” he said, wiping his mouth as though I’d dirtied him.
I turned immediately and tried to run but he pulled me back, holding me at arm’s length.
“Sorry,” he said, breathing hard. “I’m sorry I pushed you. And that I shouted. But you can’t … You mustn’t … Don’t, Errin. Please.”
In my life I’d never kn
own such shame and I nodded mutely. He let me go, and I ran home and made myself some poppy tea. The following morning I woke with a headache, a pain in my heart when I thought of him, and a note under the door asking for some willow bark salve.
We’ve never spoken of it, and until he took my hand in front of Unwin, we hadn’t touched.
* * *
I shrug slightly, dislodging his hand, and he removes it immediately. My shoulder feels cold in the place it rested.
“Did you want something?” I say flatly.
“I was on my way to meet my contact. I wanted to check on you. Both of you.”
“Thanks to you, we just had the best night we’ve had in three moons,” I say and his face falls. “I’ve used most of it up trying to understand it and I can’t. I admit I can’t. I need your help, there’s only one drop left. Tell me what’s in it. Please.”
“You can’t make this, Errin. Nor should you want to.”
“Why not?”
“I wish …” he begins, then shakes his head. “I can try to get you some more. That’s all I can do.”
I look back at him. “How much? Could you get enough to last me a year?”
He makes a strange face, his lips pulled back, his cheeks paling.
“I’ll pay you for it; I’m not asking for favors.”
“It’s not that. I can’t—”
“You can’t tell me,” I cut him off. “Of course not. It’s probably a secret, right, Silas?”
“You’re not being fair.”
I shake my head at him. “Don’t talk to me about fair, Silas Kolby.”
He looks at me, his expression wretched, but I can’t feel sympathy for him. I turn away from him and wait until I hear the door close softly behind me. Then I return to the table. One more try.
* * *
Later, when I fall asleep, I dream of the man again. This time, we’re not in the apothecary, or my hut, or anywhere I’ve been before. It’s a small stone chamber, simply furnished. It’s cold and dank, and something about it makes me believe we’re underground. The man sits on a wooden chair, leaning over a table stained with dark patches. He’s hunched over, looking defeated and weary, and I feel sad for him.
“Come here, sweetling,” he says, sensing me, and I go to him. He wraps his arms around my waist and rests his head against my stomach. “What a mess,” he sighs. “What a mess.”
He reaches up and pulls me down, so I’m curved over him, then presses his lips to my throat. My eyes flutter closed and he kisses his way along my jaw. When he stops I feel dizzy.
“I have you, though, don’t I?” he asks, his mouth on my ear, his tongue flickering over it lightly.
I find myself nodding.
* * *
I’m woken by banging sometime later, and bitter disappointment and cold air cooling the sweat on my brow as I sit up, disoriented. My first thought is that the potion doesn’t work after all. Last night it was a coincidence that she was quiet.
Then the knock comes again, faintly, three raps.
On the front door. Not my mother’s door.
Every single terrible possibility in the world crosses my mind: that it’s Unwin; that it’s Kirin and his soldiers; that it’s raiders, or thieves. My best hope is that it’s Silas, but given what happened earlier, that’s fairly unlikely. I scramble out of the bed and freeze, muttering Please go away over and over, under my breath. Silence, and then the knock comes again, more insistent, louder, and my heart sinks. Soldiers, then.
The latch rattles and I dart forward, realizing too late that the door isn’t locked. As it swings open I see a figure holding a large bundle in its arms.
“Help,” Silas says, staggering to my pallet and dropping a body onto it.
I close the front door, then move to where Silas is crouched next to what I think is a man. His face looks like a slab of raw meat. His nose is smeared across his face, one cheek slack, his hair blood-soaked. He’s unconscious, and I press my fingers to his wrist. To my surprise I feel a pulse, faint as the brush of a moth’s wing, and I count the beats, concerned by how weak they are, how far apart.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” Silas says, sounding pained and helpless. “I’m sorry.”
“I need water.” I don’t look at him, continuing my assessment of the man’s injuries. He’s lucky to be alive. I don’t think he’s likely to stay that way. “I know it’s risky, but …”
“I’ll get it.”
While he’s gone I reach for my knife, cutting along the lines of the man’s tunic and exposing a battered, muscular chest that’s as bruised as his face. Gently I press along his rib cage, trying to feel for fractures, but can find none. I pass my hands over his left hip, then down the leg, exploring the knee and ankle firmly. Satisfied that it’s unbroken, I begin along the right.
“Got it,” Silas says, racing back into the cottage and slamming the door shut, making me wince and turn to my mother’s door. We both pause, eyes wide and waiting.
“I’m sorry,” Silas says and I shake my head.
“Forget it. The water needs to be boiled.” I nod at the bucket in his hands, noting the severed rope, and wince inside at the questions the soldiers will have when they try to use the well tomorrow. He carries the water straight to the fireplace, sloshing some of it into the pipkin. I hear him build a fire, the rustling of light papers and the faint cracking of flames. Then he’s standing over me again, watching me finish my examination.
“We need bandages,” I say. “Take one of the clean blankets from the washing line. Tear it up into long strips.”
He fetches one and sits near me, tearing with a violence that puts me on edge. For a while the ripping of fabric is the only sound, and eventually I start to speak, to fill the gaps around that awful noise.
“His nose is broken, and I think his right cheekbone, too,” I begin. “I suspect his ribs are fractured; two of them, maybe more. His legs seem to be unbroken, though his right ankle is badly swollen, so I can’t be sure. It looks to me as though he’s been beaten severely.”
“Will he live?” Silas asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. I move to the table and rummage in my kit for willow bark and arnica balm. “Add some salt to the water,” I tell Silas before I continue. “Do you know him? Is he the person you were going to meet?”
Silas’s gaze is fixed on the injured man. His hood wasn’t up when he arrived; his hands are trembling. He’s losing it; whatever wherewithal he had to get the man here, it’s leaving him.
“Silas, I need your help,” I snap at him. “I need a stick. A sturdy one. About this long.” I hold up my hands six inches apart.
He looks at me, his expression blank, and I realize he’s useless to me right now. So I haul myself up, wiping my hands on my already stained dress, and sneak out into the darkness. It’s a clear night and above me a hundred thousand stars wink conspiratorially at one another. The moon is full, pale and heavy in the dark high over my head, the world lit up bright as day, though it’s as if all the color has been leached out of it. It’s not even midnight yet.
I find what I’m looking for quickly, an oak branch that’s thin and straight enough to use as a splint, and I turn back to the cottage. I freeze when I see a shape, light glancing off something on the outskirts of the trees behind the hut, before it moves deeper into the shadowy forest. I remain still and narrow my eyes, scanning the tree line for movement, a flash of chain mail or a blue sash, the covered face of a raider, or whoever attacked Silas’s friend. I wait, counting heartbeats, until sixty have passed and I’ve seen nothing else. Then I run, as fast as I can back into the hut, closing and bolting the door behind me and leaning against it, taking a moment to calm down before I head back to my patient.
Silas is standing at the table, staring blindly at the vials and mess on it, and I hold the stick out to him, telling him to strip the bark. He startles and begins to do as I’ve asked, and I set about cutting the man’s trousers away, lamenting because the fabric
is fine, tightly woven and sewn with small, neat stitches. Whoever this man is, he’s come from somewhere with money. I peel and tear the fabric, stiff with dried blood and muck, away from his skin.
“Can you save him?” Silas asks, so quietly that I have to look at him to be sure he’s spoken.
“I don’t know.” I begin to splint the man’s leg, binding the stick to it with the bandages he made.
“Please try. I’ll do anything. Anything.” Silas’s gold eyes fix on mine, too bright, and I nod, once, before turning back to my patient.
* * *
I’ve always been good with plants. On our old farm there was a small patch of land that my father gave to me for my thirteenth birthday—good, fertile ground; he marked the plot out with a tiny fence he made himself.
“That’s for our Errin,” he’d announced to us all as we looked at the bare earth. “So she can grow her herbs and save us a fortune at the apothecary.”
That was a joke; the four of us were rudely healthy. Until the day my father fell we’d never called on the apothecary for any reason other than for me to request an apprenticeship.
The first I knew of his accident was when my brother raced onto the village green. I was sitting with Lirys, half listening to her telling me some story about Kirin, when Lief arrived, bone white and shaking.
“Come,” he said and terror stabbed at my heart as I lifted my skirts and followed him.
The Sleeping Prince Page 10