extent of his illness. “You’ll live, I fear. But something must be done. It’s gone sour.”
“Do you know how to treat it?” He shivered and spit burst from his lips as he breathed hard. The cords of his neck strained beneath the skin.
“That, I won’t know until I’ve seen the wound.” She went to the laver beside the bed and plunged her hands in, scrubbing her hands as clean as she could with the cold water. Nurse used to say the only thing that had saved Joanna’s life after the burns was cleanliness, and Johanna had taken it to heart. It would do no good if she were to introduce some different foul humor into his body while tending to the one that already lurked there.
She went to his side and lifted the corner of the bandage. The impossible heat beneath her fingertips confirmed her suspicion before the rancid smell assailed her. She had sealed the wound too soon, trapping disease inside. This was her fault.
“It isn’t as bad as all that, is it?” he asked through chattering teeth.
Though she’d found it difficult to drum up pity for him before, she certainly felt it now. Perhaps it was just guilt. “I’ll have to reopen the wound and purge the infection. I’m sure Nurse left something for that.”
“Yes, that sounds brilliant. Let’s cut me open and smear some ancient salve from a dusty box into the fresh wound. That should heal the infection from the old one.”
She ignored his venom, pushing herself to remember what Nurse had taught her. Mold to purge, honey to cure. Was it the other way? She remembered the moldering bread downstairs, and rushed to retrieve it.
The lower room was dark, but for the faint red glow from the embers in the hearth. She tiptoed across the room, one eye warily on those coals. The fires of Hazelhurn had burned for days after, with that same red malevolence. She sucked up a fortifying breath and knelt down to snatch up the bread Wilhelm had carelessly discarded. On the table, a kitchen knife glittered. She wiped the blade on her dress and hurried back upstairs.
“Are you to make a meal of me, then?” Philipe asked, when he saw the honey and bread.
She poked at the coals in the fireplace and used a long handle to hang a kettle over the cinders. “It’s a trick of my Nurse’s. The honey is hers. Did you know that honey will never rot?”
“I’ll remember that when I am too poor to buy fresh honey or too infirm to climb a tree and steal some.”
“I believe that time has come,” she said, and realized uncomfortably that she chided him not solely out of hatred. “But use some sense, highness. If honey does not rot, and I pour it onto your festering, vile, pestilent arm, perhaps it will send the rot there scurrying away. It was how Nurse explained it to me.”
“Then I will thank your Nurse personally when her medicine kills me.” He laughed weakly. “Do what you will.”
When the water heated enough to be effective, she retrieved the kettle and wet some clean linens. She pressed them over the wound, and he hissed. She hoped the heat would draw up the foulness and rend the original tear, so that she would not need to use the knife. After a time, she lifted the cloth and pressed at the reddened skin. It gave way, the healing pink flesh giving way to spill free the putrefaction inside. Philipe groaned in relief. “I realize this is disgusting, and you will never look at me without remembering it, but I don’t care.”
She smiled, but turned away to hide it. It seemed wrong to find anything about Philipe amusing, and especially now, with Wilhelm missing…
Put some steel in your spine, woman! she scolded herself. She had spent fifteen years tending the soil of her anger. She would not allow Philipe’s manufactured charm to wilt the fruit of it on the vine. “You don’t have to pretend that you care about retaining my good opinion. I know I am not the type of woman you’d drag to your bed.”
“I have never had to drag anyone,” he said through
“Do you know how to treat it?” He shivered and spit burst from his lips as he breathed hard. The cords of his neck strained beneath the skin.
“That, I won’t know until I’ve seen the wound.” She went to the laver beside the bed and plunged her hands in, scrubbing her hands as clean as she could with the cold water. Nurse used to say the only thing that had saved Joanna’s life after the burns was cleanliness, and Johanna had taken it to heart. It would do no good if she were to introduce some different foul humor into his body while tending to the one that already lurked there.
She went to his side and lifted the corner of the bandage. The impossible heat beneath her fingertips confirmed her suspicion before the rancid smell assailed her. She had sealed the wound too soon, trapping disease inside. This was her fault.
“It isn’t as bad as all that, is it?” he asked through chattering teeth.
Though she’d found it difficult to drum up pity for him before, she certainly felt it now. Perhaps it was just guilt. “I’ll have to reopen the wound and purge the infection. I’m sure Nurse left something for that.”
“Yes, that sounds brilliant. Let’s cut me open and smear some ancient salve from a dusty box into the fresh wound. That should heal the infection from the old one.”
She ignored his venom, pushing herself to remember what Nurse had taught her. Mold to purge, honey to cure. Was it the other way? She remembered the moldering bread downstairs, and rushed to retrieve it.
The lower room was dark, but for the faint red glow from the embers in the hearth. She tiptoed across the room, one eye warily on those coals. The fires of Hazelhurn had burned for days after, with that same red malevolence. She sucked up a fortifying breath and knelt down to snatch up the bread Wilhelm had carelessly discarded. On the table, a kitchen knife glittered. She wiped the blade on her dress and hurried back upstairs.
“Are you to make a meal of me, then?” Philipe asked, when he saw the honey and bread.
She poked at the coals in the fireplace and used a long handle to hang a kettle over the cinders. “It’s a trick of my Nurse’s. The honey is hers. Did you know that honey will never rot?”
“I’ll remember that when I am too poor to buy fresh honey or too infirm to climb a tree and steal some.”
“I believe that time has come,” she said, and realized uncomfortably that she chided him not solely out of hatred. “But use some sense, highness. If honey does not rot, and I pour it onto your festering, vile, pestilent arm, perhaps it will send the rot there scurrying away. It was how Nurse explained it to me.”
“Then I will thank your Nurse personally when her medicine kills me.” He laughed weakly. “Do what you will.”
When the water heated enough to be effective, she retrieved the kettle and wet some clean linens. She pressed them over the wound, and he hissed. She hoped the heat would draw up the foulness and rend the original tear, so that she would not need to use the knife. After a time, she lifted the cloth and pressed at the reddened skin. It gave way, the healing pink flesh giving way to spill free the putrefaction inside. Philipe groaned in relief. “I realize this is disgusting, and you will never look at me without remembering it, but I don’t care.”
She smiled, but turned away to hide it. It seemed wrong to find anything about Philipe amusing, and especially now, with Wilhelm missing…
Put some steel in your spine, woman! she scolded herself. She had spent fifteen years tending the soil of her anger. She would not allow Philipe’s manufactured charm to wilt the fruit of it on the vine. “You don’t have to pretend that you care about retaining my good opinion. I know I am not the type of woman you’d drag to your bed.”
“I have never had to drag anyone,” he said through
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