Duainfey (8 page)

"Please tell Harin I'll be right with her," Becca said, putting the needle down with relief. "And ask Cook to give her some tea."

"I believe that's already been taken care of." Mrs. Janies sniffed, and Becca bent her head to hide a smile. Mrs. Janies felt that Cook was entirely too free with the Earl's larder.

"Good," Becca said, and nodded. "I'll be there directly," she repeated. Mrs. Janies sighed and inclined her head.

"Very good, miss."

Of course, Harin would have come on an errand from Sonet, Becca thought, trying to disentangle herself from the tablecloth. The heavy linen folds had taken over her lap, and trying to shift them one-handed was proving unexpectedly difficult. No matter where she took hold, the cloth slithered and shifted, eluding capture and becoming even more unruly. Biting her lip, Becca slowly brought her damaged arm up, and laid it across her lap, using it as a stop while she gathered up the slippery fabric.

Unfortunately the arm had weight but little strength, and the cloth went skittering across the work table, before heeding the siren call of gravity, taking needles, thread, and scissors with it in a tangled cascade to the floor.

"Oh . . ." Becca gasped, perilously—and idiotically—close to tears. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and took three more deep breaths. Slightly calmer, she opened her eyes and stood, careful that her feet weren't tangled in the damn cloth.

Deliberately, she walked to the door, opened it and stepped into the hall. She closed the door behind her.
Softly
.

She would, she told herself calmly, see Harin. When that was done, she would bring one of the housemaids back with her to help straighten up the mess.

That was a reasonable plan of action, but it didn't change the fact that she
hated
having to ask for help, for not being able to do simple tasks without creating a mess, for needing someone to cut her meat, for—She took another calming breath and deliberately brought her headlong stride down to something more seemly.

Yes, she thought carefully, her injury did make it difficult to do even very simple things. And the truth was that she would happily trade a year of polishing silver for the ability to actually do so. However, this anger—she was done with anger. She had made a pact with Irene, that she would not be angry, and that she would not be cowed, that she would not be the helpless invalid. There were very many things that she could accomplish perfectly well, and those things she was resolved to do. There were other things that might be managed, with difficulty, and those things she resolved to try to do. Those things that she simply could not perform one-handed, for those things she had resolved to accept assistance with good grace.

It was the last that was the most difficult, but she had managed, at first, with effort—sometimes a very great deal of effort—and then progressively less until it became habitual, simply the way things were.

It had been a very long time, indeed, since her body's infirmity had drawn tears.

"You're all over sixes and sevens, aren't you, my lady?" she muttered. Well. She had schooled herself into what passed for patience and sweet calmness once, she could do it again. And again, if necessary. Sir Jennet surely expected a conformable wife, and she had no wish to disturb his peace—or hers!—by acting him a series of tragedies. All the rumble and ruction attending Caro's dance had knocked her off-center, that was all. A renewed application of discipline would set everything right.

With this bracing thought in mind, Becca entered the kitchen.

Harin was seated on a stool at the work table, a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits to hand, talking with Cook while the latter rolled out dough. Cook allowed no one else to make pastry; she had once told Becca that pie-making was better than prayer for settling the mind.

"Good afternoon, Miss Beauvelley." Harin slid from the stool and bent her head respectfully. Wherever Harin had come from—and Sonet could not be persuaded to say—she had been taught a severe respect for the Landed. She persisted in all the forms even when they were kneeling side-by-side, weeding out a garden patch, and nothing Becca could say brought her to a lesser degree of formality. She'd finally given up, after an appeal to Sonet elicited the response that it was good for an apprentice to show respect to a master.

"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.