saddlebag, she glanced at him.
Already dismounted, he reached for the mare’s reins. “I’ll stable the horses. Joy’s on the sofa in the main room.”
Lucilla nodded. Her saddlebag in one hand, she headed for the front door. Opening it, she paused, waited a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimness, then walked in.
The Carrick healer was still lying on the sofa. There was no fire, no light, no warmth in the house. After setting her saddlebag on the table, Lucilla went into the kitchen, but the lamp she found was empty. The stove was cold, the fire in the kitchen hearth long gone to ashes. No candles lay in sight. Walking back into the main room, she scanned the furniture, the mantel—and saw a candle in a holder sitting beside a tinderbox.
She made quick work of lighting the candle, then carried it to the sofa.
Two minutes were enough for her to confirm that Joy Burns had passed beyond her ability to help. The healer was still alive, but barely, and she wasn’t long for the world.
Lucilla straightened; she looked up as Thomas came inside and shut the door.
“How is she?” He crossed to stand behind the sofa and looked down at Joy. His face hardened. “She hasn’t moved since I laid her there.”
Lucilla hated to say the words, but she’d had to often enough to know the importance of simply saying them. “You thought she was dying, and you were right. There’s nothing I can do to help her. I’m sorry.” After a moment, she added, “As she hasn’t moved, I don’t think you could have done anything for her, even when you first found her.”
His face had set, the lines harsh and unyielding; for a moment he said nothing, then he glanced up and met her eyes. Briefly, grimly, he nodded. “The Bradshaws?”
“Pray they’re in better straits.” She lifted the candleholder from the small table beside the sofa and turned to the archway she assumed led to the bedrooms. “I’ll check on the youngest first—the little girl, isn’t it? Which room is she in?”
He came around the sofa and pointed to an open door to the right of the corridor. “The three girls share that room. The two boys are in the end room, and Bradshaw and Mrs. Bradshaw are in the room to the left.”
“I’ll examine them all—children, then the parents.” She walked into the corridor.
Behind her, he said, “The lamps had burned down. I’ll see if I can find more lamp oil.”
Without looking back, she nodded. “And if not that, see if you can find more candles. I—we—will need better light.”
Pushing open the door to the girls’ room, she went inside.
To her relief, the youngest girl, about seven years old, seemed to be recovering; she roused from what appeared to have been normal sleep when Lucilla laid a hand on her brow.
Quickly reassuring the child, Lucilla checked on the older girls, about thirteen and fourteen. Both also roused, but were weaker, groggier, than their younger sister.
But all would live; Lucilla was certain of that.
It seemed odd that the youngest, and most lightweight, should be recovering fastest, but assuming the same would hold true for the others afflicted, Lucilla returned to the youngest girl and encouraged her to describe what had happened, what she’d felt and when. The child’s report was clear enough; all the family had started to feel ill from about noon the day before. One by one, they’d started vomiting, then had taken to their beds, but the cramps hadn’t stopped. The girl complained that her stomach—by which Lucilla confirmed she meant her abdominal muscles—still hurt dreadfully.
By the time the Forresters had arrived late in the afternoon, the entire family had been laid low. The Forresters had said they would send for the healer, but the girl knew no more; she’d fallen asleep.
She’d woken again that morning, but she hadn’t felt well enough to do anything at all, and had continued to lie in her bed, drifting in and out of sleep.
The girl’s eyes looked
Already dismounted, he reached for the mare’s reins. “I’ll stable the horses. Joy’s on the sofa in the main room.”
Lucilla nodded. Her saddlebag in one hand, she headed for the front door. Opening it, she paused, waited a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimness, then walked in.
The Carrick healer was still lying on the sofa. There was no fire, no light, no warmth in the house. After setting her saddlebag on the table, Lucilla went into the kitchen, but the lamp she found was empty. The stove was cold, the fire in the kitchen hearth long gone to ashes. No candles lay in sight. Walking back into the main room, she scanned the furniture, the mantel—and saw a candle in a holder sitting beside a tinderbox.
She made quick work of lighting the candle, then carried it to the sofa.
Two minutes were enough for her to confirm that Joy Burns had passed beyond her ability to help. The healer was still alive, but barely, and she wasn’t long for the world.
Lucilla straightened; she looked up as Thomas came inside and shut the door.
“How is she?” He crossed to stand behind the sofa and looked down at Joy. His face hardened. “She hasn’t moved since I laid her there.”
Lucilla hated to say the words, but she’d had to often enough to know the importance of simply saying them. “You thought she was dying, and you were right. There’s nothing I can do to help her. I’m sorry.” After a moment, she added, “As she hasn’t moved, I don’t think you could have done anything for her, even when you first found her.”
His face had set, the lines harsh and unyielding; for a moment he said nothing, then he glanced up and met her eyes. Briefly, grimly, he nodded. “The Bradshaws?”
“Pray they’re in better straits.” She lifted the candleholder from the small table beside the sofa and turned to the archway she assumed led to the bedrooms. “I’ll check on the youngest first—the little girl, isn’t it? Which room is she in?”
He came around the sofa and pointed to an open door to the right of the corridor. “The three girls share that room. The two boys are in the end room, and Bradshaw and Mrs. Bradshaw are in the room to the left.”
“I’ll examine them all—children, then the parents.” She walked into the corridor.
Behind her, he said, “The lamps had burned down. I’ll see if I can find more lamp oil.”
Without looking back, she nodded. “And if not that, see if you can find more candles. I—we—will need better light.”
Pushing open the door to the girls’ room, she went inside.
To her relief, the youngest girl, about seven years old, seemed to be recovering; she roused from what appeared to have been normal sleep when Lucilla laid a hand on her brow.
Quickly reassuring the child, Lucilla checked on the older girls, about thirteen and fourteen. Both also roused, but were weaker, groggier, than their younger sister.
But all would live; Lucilla was certain of that.
It seemed odd that the youngest, and most lightweight, should be recovering fastest, but assuming the same would hold true for the others afflicted, Lucilla returned to the youngest girl and encouraged her to describe what had happened, what she’d felt and when. The child’s report was clear enough; all the family had started to feel ill from about noon the day before. One by one, they’d started vomiting, then had taken to their beds, but the cramps hadn’t stopped. The girl complained that her stomach—by which Lucilla confirmed she meant her abdominal muscles—still hurt dreadfully.
By the time the Forresters had arrived late in the afternoon, the entire family had been laid low. The Forresters had said they would send for the healer, but the girl knew no more; she’d fallen asleep.
She’d woken again that morning, but she hadn’t felt well enough to do anything at all, and had continued to lie in her bed, drifting in and out of sleep.
The girl’s eyes looked
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