“A witch?” My voice climbs so high it fairly squeaks, my heart stuttering painfully with the accusation. “My lady, I assure you, I am no such thing! I’m a midwife’s daughter, that is all! I’ve studied with my mother, learned from her as any woman could, not—”
“I question what you could have learned from your mother without ever wielding pen and paper, or consulting the recorded wisdom of the ancients,” she snaps, rounding on me, terrible in her fear for her son. “But what you are matters not a whit to me—as long as you can save him. So, tell me, can you? Or are you as useless as my lackwit physician has already proven himself to be?”
I wring my hands together to halt their trembling, draw a long breath. Whatever she thinks of me, her son needs me now, and I will not fail him. “How long has he been ill?” I ask.
Her eyes drop to the boy, and she sweeps a tender hand over his clammy brow, clearing the damp ruck of hair away from his face. The boy whimpers under her touch, pursing his rosebud mouth. He is beautiful, raven-haired and milk-skinned with features fine as his mother’s, the stamp of her clear upon him. His father seems to have barely left a mark.
“Just over a day,” she replies, her voice dropping to a whisper. “He burns with fever, thrashes in his sleep. Zorka—the woman who raises him—will know more of how it begun.”
There is movement by the tiny hearth, from the patch of shadow my eye skimmed over before the countess drew it. A small, unprepossessing woman flinches forward, ducking her head to me in greeting. She must have heard what the countess called me, and I’d wager “witch” holds weight with her.
“He was playing just yesterday, the poor little mite,” she breathes, her eyes darting between me and the countess. Her fear is a palpable thing, and I realize immediately that she is terrified for herself as much as Gabor—for what will befall her should this illness claim him. That is why the cottage fairly blazes with light, her attempt at warding off the impending shadow of his death. “And then he began complaining that his feet hurt and his head ached, that his belly was sour. I did not—I should have put him to bed immediately, but I had sewing work yet to be done.” She closes her eyes, her lips trembling. “By last night, he was fevered thus. He would not stir when I tried to wake him.”
I nod briskly, already shuffling through possibilities. “I will examine the boy, then,” I say, flitting a glance at the countess. She nods her permission, her eyes still fastened on him. “Will you fetch me some water, Zorka? And a clean cloth.”
Once she does, I scrub my hands thoroughly, rinsing off the dirt of horse and travel. My mother has long since claimed that clean labors unfold more smoothly, so I have made a habit of it even when tending to other ills. Under the lady’s avid gaze, I run my hands searchingly over her son. I peel back his eyelids, peering at the red-riddled whites and the pink tissues that line them, lever his mouth open to observe his tongue—white-furred and dry, his breath fanning furnace-hot across my face—and prod gently at the tender nodules beneath his jaw. I listen to his heart and lungs, both blessedly clear, though his pulse flutters like tiny wings against my ear. I then press my fingers into his abdomen, searching for stiffness and finding none.
“Zorka, tell me,” I say, firing questions like arrows at her. “What water do you drink? What has he eaten in the past few days? Has anyone else fallen ill?”
As she stutters her responses, a picture forms in my mind, taking on a pattern of its own accord.
“I’ll need to strip him,” I tell them. Zorka and the countess exchange perplexed glances, but neither questions me. Zorka strips off the child’s sweat-soaked nightshirt, fine linen subtly trimmed with lace, lovelier than anything I’ve ever touched; clearly a gift from the boy’s blood mother. I pore over his front, finding nothing but the collection of welts, scratches, and bug bites customary for an active little boy. Puzzled, I have her flip him over, but his backside is no more revealing.
“What is it?” the countess demands, her voice quivering with impatience. “What are you looking for?”
“Perhaps I’m wrong,” I murmur, frowning as I slide my hands down his legs. “But there should be—Ah!”
As my fingers skim over his rough, dirt-encrusted soles, the boy shudders in his sleep, letting out a mewling cry. I freeze, then press my thumb into his instep. Beneath the dirt, it’s swollen and tender, hot to the touch.
Gabor releases another muted howl, his foot twitching against my grip.
“Oh, what is it?” the countess cries, distraught at his pain. “What is hurting him?”
I dip the cloth into the pail of water Zorka brought me, then cleanse his foot as gently as I’m able. He clearly runs about barefoot, which is why I did not see it at once. But when the mud and dirt scour away, they reveal a circle of puffy, reddened skin—with a fat black thorn embedded at its center, pus seeping sickly around it.
The sight would turn many a stomach, but not mine. Nor the countess’s, it seems. Instead, she cranes for a closer look, smooth forehead furrowing with interest. “He did say his feet were hurting, did he not, Zorka? But a thorn?” she demands, nonplussed. “A mere thorn is sickening him unto the brink of death? How is that possible, Anna?”
“It is not the thorn itself, my lady,” I whisper, my belly lurching with dread as I tilt his sole toward her. “See where these red lines fork away from the wound, like little rivers? The puncture has allowed dirt to enter his blood, taint and sicken it. It festers now.”
“Blood itself can sicken?” she asks in bemused, almost marveling tones. “It is meant to be the sanguine humor, robust and enduring, is it not? But perhaps that is why his cheeks glow so brightly.” She tilts her head speculatively. “How strange, that such a taint could bring an even greater beauty to him. I would not have thought it possible.”
“I know nothing of humors, sanguine or otherwise, my lady,” I say, somewhat bewildered that she would be considering her boy’s rosy cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
“No matter,” she responds with a dismissive wave. “Now is not the time to consider Galen. In the absence of a dead philosopher to guide us, what can you do for my son?”
“I’ll do what I can, m’lady,” I say heavily. “I will prepare a poultice for the wound, as well as a tisane for him to drink. The rest—I fear it will be up to him more than me.”
“Will he live?” she asks, somber. “I warn you, do not dare lie merely to appease me. If you do I will know, and it will be the worse for you than any unwelcome truth.”
“He will have to fight to live, my lady,” I respond truthfully. I would not have lied to her even if she hadn’t cautioned me against it; I’m not against a well-advised deception, but I can sense her nose for truth. “And fight hard. But I will be by his side, to help as much as I am able.”
She considers me a moment longer, her dauntless gaze holding fast to mine. Whatever she sees in my eyes must be enough to sway her, for she gives a curt nod.
“Do it, then,” she orders. “My trust is in you, Anna. You have my leave to do what you must to save him.”