Fennel Thistledown's Arc

Chapter 13 of 21

Lily washed her hands and knelt by the child. Fennel sat by the hearth, too far to reach the bed. She watched Lily lay out her herbs on a cloth: the fuzzy purple leaves with their turquoise crowns, a bundle of feverbloom, a red-tinted sprig for calming the belly. Lily's hands moved fast. Too fast, Fennel thought. "Feel his skin first," Fennel said. "Tell me what you find." "He's hot. Very hot." Lily pressed the boy's chest. "I'll double the feverbloom. He needs it strong." Fennel's stomach dropped. "How much?" "Six leaves. Maybe eight." Lily reached for the pile, sure of herself. The mother watched, hands twisted in her skirt. "Stop." Fennel gripped the arm of her chair. "Eight leaves would slow his heart. You know this. You caught my own errors in the book." Lily's hand froze above the feverbloom. "But the fever's so high. He needs more." "More is not always the cure." Fennel kept her voice low. "Say the dose back to me. The right one." Lily's cheeks went red. For a moment Fennel saw it clearly: the girl trusted her own quick mind more than the lesson. That was the danger. One bold guess now, and if the child worsened, Lily would never dare heal again. Lily closed her eyes. Her lips moved. "Three leaves for a child his size," she said. "Crushed, steeped, cooled before he drinks. And the red sprig with it, to keep the medicine down." She opened her eyes. "Three. Not eight." "Good," Fennel said. "Now do it." Lily counted three feverbloom leaves. She set the rest aside. Her hands slowed. She crushed the leaves, then the red-tinted sprig, and steeped them in warm water. She waited for the cup to cool. She did not rush. She checked the boy's pulse with two fingers, the way Fennel had taught her. "Steady," Lily said. "Slow." She lifted the child's head and gave him the drink in small sips. The mother knelt beside her. Fennel could only watch her own hands, useless in her lap. They waited. The fire ticked. After a long while the boy stirred. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his breathing eased. Lily pressed his chest again. "Cooler," she whispered. "It's breaking." The mother wept and clutched Lily's sleeve. Lily looked to Fennel, and her face had changed. The pride was gone. Something steadier had taken its place. "I almost gave him eight," Lily said quietly. "I wanted to be sure. I nearly hurt him being sure." "You stopped," Fennel said. "That's the healer. Not the one who never doubts. The one who checks." Lily nodded. She gathered the leftover feverbloom and set it back in the basket, careful now, counting as she went. Fennel watched her and felt the ache in her knees ease a little. The girl would not run ahead of herself again. She had learned the weight of a single leaf.