Treatments

I followed the Magistrate inside.

The cottage felt smaller with him in it. He filled the room with his bulk, his presence, the weight of his authority pressing against the rafters. Alaric had emerged from the examination room, wiping his hands on a cloth, and was already bowing.

“Your Excellency,” he said, inclining his head. “Welcome. Is there anything I can do for you?”

Haldane pressed two fingers against his temple. “I have a headache. Nothing serious, I expect. The journey was longer than I'd anticipated.”

“Then perhaps some willowbark tea would help. It can ease the pain.” Alaric glanced toward the hearth. “I'll prepare some for you.”

Lady Isabella stepped out of the examination room. The candlelight caught the pallor of her skin, the sheen of sweat at her collarbone. Her eyes found mine the moment she crossed the threshold.

She looked frightened. But I couldn't tell whether it was me she feared or whatever she'd felt when our hands touched.

She was rubbing the fingers of one hand with the other, pressing against the spot where our skin had met. As if she could still feel something there.

I stood to the side, arms loose, face neutral. The needle rested in my pocket.

Alaric moved toward the pantry, gathering jars. “Daenor, take Lady Isabella her tonic, would you? It's on the table. I’ll prepare the willowbark for the Magistrate.”

I nodded and picked up the ceramic mug. The liquid inside was still warm, the scent of chamomile and valerian rising in a soft curl of steam.

Isabella watched me approach. Her pupils seemed wider than before, and her breathing was shallow. I held out the mug, keeping the needle concealed in my palm.

She reached for it with trembling fingers.

Our hands touched.

The needle surged.

This wasn't a pulse. It was a flood, though not a clear one. Sensations and impressions rushed through me, overlapping before I could make sense of them. The dull repetition of mornings. The cold weight of a hand resting on her arm. A flash of irritation, quickly swallowed. And beneath it all, something sharper—a longing for warmth, for affection, for someone to look at her as though she mattered.

Then it was gone, or mostly gone. I was left with fragments, like scraps of a conversation overheard through a wall. I couldn't make sense of it. The impressions came and went too quickly, leaving me with little more than the feeling that I'd glimpsed something private.

Her knees weakened. She caught herself against the counter, gripping the edge until her knuckles whitened. Her breath hitched, and a small sound escaped her before she could suppress it.

Haldane's head snapped toward her. “What was that?”

“The heat,” she said, her voice thin. “It’s just the heat.”

I should have let go of the mug. Instead, I held it steady for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

A thought surfaced, smooth and reassuring.

She needs this. Let her have it.

She took the mug, and I released it, breaking our contact. But the sensation didn't disappear. Somewhere beyond my reach, something seemed to remain connected to her—a faint tension, like a thread vibrating long after it had been plucked.

My father emerged from the pantry, a bundle of willowbark in his hands.

“Magistrate, if you’ll take a seat, the tea will be ready shortly.”

Haldane lowered himself into the chair at our table. It creaked under his weight. Isabella remained standing, holding the mug in both hands.

“Sit down,” Haldane said. Not a request.

She obeyed, lowering herself into the chair beside him. The tonic sloshed over the rim, spilling onto her hand. She set the mug down, fumbling.

“Clumsy,” Haldane muttered.

“Apologies, Magistrate,” I said, stepping forward with a cloth. “That was my fault. I overfilled the mug.”

I offered the cloth. Isabella took it, her eyes briefly meeting mine. There was something in them I couldn't read. Confusion, perhaps. Irritation. Maybe both.

She wiped her hand, then folded the cloth neatly beside the mug. Her expression had settled again, though I noticed the tightness around her mouth when Haldane turned away.

My father brought Haldane his tea. The Magistrate drank it in three long gulps, steam rising around his face. He set the cup down with a thud.

“Good,” he said. “Your skills are dependable, Alaric. I appreciate that.”

“Thank you, Magistrate.”

“I’ll send word when we need the next session.” He stood and buttoned his coat. “And Alaric—keep your son out of my way. I don’t need distractions.”

Alaric bowed. “Of course, Magistrate.”

Isabella rose. Her legs seemed steadier now. She didn't look at me again, but I felt her attention like a pressure against my skull. She followed her husband out the door.

A moment later, he was shouting at the coachman who was apparently still sleeping. The carriage creaked. The horses stamped. The door slammed.

The tension in the cottage broke like a held breath.

Alaric remained standing for a moment, watching the doorway. Then his shoulders dropped. He let out a long breath and rubbed both hands over his face.

“Gods above,” he muttered. “I can treat a fever, set a broken bone, and deliver a child in a thunderstorm. But one afternoon with the Magistrate and I feel as though I've spent the day walking across a frozen lake.”

Lyra had slipped in through the back door, a basket of dried herbs in her arms. She set it down and brushed a strand of hair from her face.

“You survived,” she said. “And he complimented you. That's practically a festival.”

“Don't tempt fate.” Alaric began putting away the jars. “Next time he'll bring his entire household.”

“Perhaps we should charge extra for that.”

“Perhaps we should charge extra for you talking.”

Lyra grinned. “I was only trying to help.”

I leaned against the counter. “Now you know why I usually avoid helping.”

She turned toward me. “Because things get weird when you do?”

“Exactly. Weird. Strange. Uncomfortable. Take your pick.”

“You helped the Magistrate’s wife spill tonic all over herself. Real helpful.”

“She spilled a few drops.”

“From where I was standing, it looked like more.”

“You were standing at the back door.”

“I have excellent eyesight.”

Alaric gave us both a tired look. “If the two of you are quite finished, I'd like to put the clinic back in order.”

Lyra picked up her basket again. “I was just wondering what happened in here. The Magistrate looked ready to bite someone's head off when he came in, and Lady Isabella looked as though she'd seen something.”

“She's unwell,” Alaric said. “That's why she came.”

“I know why she came. I'm curious about the rest.”

“Then find something else to be curious about.”

Lyra glanced at me. Her smile widened.

“Oh, I can think of several things.”

I decided not to encourage her.

The front door opened again. Our mother, Elara, stepped inside with a woven basket heavy with vegetables from the garden. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbows, and a smudge of soil marked one cheek.

“I saw the carriage leaving,” she said, setting the basket on the table. “I assume the Magistrate survived the treatment?”

“Barely,” Alaric said.

“And you?”

“I'm considering taking up shepherding. Sheep don't complain about their nerves.”

Elara gave him a sympathetic smile. “No, but they do bite. And you know how you get when someone bites you.”

“I do not.”

“You once refused to treat the miller's dog for three months because it nipped your hand.”

“It was an ill-tempered animal.”

“It was a puppy.”

Lyra laughed. Alaric shook his head, but the tension had finally left his face.

Elara began unloading the basket. “Well, whatever the Magistrate's troubles, they can wait until next week. Dinner won't.”

She glanced at me. “And you look dreadful.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

“Don't thank me. Wash your face. You look as though you've been digging potatoes with your teeth.”

“I've had a long day.”

“So has everyone. The difference is that the rest of us managed to bring home vegetables.”

Lyra snorted.

Elara handed her a bunch of carrots. “Since you're both so entertained, you can help me prepare them.”

The cottage filled with the familiar rhythm of preparation. Elara took charge of the vegetables, sorting what needed peeling from what could go straight into the pot. Lyra set the table and complained about the crooked legs on one of the chairs. Alaric finished putting away the medicines before finally removing his apron.

I sat on the bench, my body heavy, my mind still spinning.

Dinner was simple: a thick vegetable stew, fresh bread, and a little cheese. Alaric ate with the appetite of a man who'd been too tense to notice he was hungry. He even went back for a second helping.

Elara watched him with amusement.

“Feeling better?”

“Much.”

“Good. I was beginning to think the Magistrate had taken your stomach along with your afternoon.”

“He nearly did.”

Lyra tore a piece of bread. “Did he really tell you to keep Daenor out of his way?”

Alaric sighed. “Yes.”

“What did Daenor do?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“That's usually when you cause the most trouble,” Lyra replied.

“I was helping.”

“Apparently that's the problem.”

Alaric pointed his spoon at us. “I don't want to hear another word about the Magistrate tonight. I have no intention of thinking about him until next week.”

Elara raised her cup. “A sensible decision. To a week without Magistrates.”

We raised our cups with hers.

I tried to join in, but my thoughts kept returning to the afternoon.

The needle lay in my pocket, cold and dormant. I'd made four attempts today, involving three different people. The coachman had been nudged toward the rest he'd already wanted. Haldane had resisted me. Isabella had reacted twice, though the second contact had been far stronger than the first.

And there had been something else.

That thought. She needs this. Let her have it.

It had come so naturally that I'd barely questioned it. But now, sitting at the table, I found myself wondering where it had come from.

I pushed the thought aside.

The needle was a strange thing. I didn't understand it, and I certainly didn't understand what I'd done with it. But I was beginning to suspect that whatever it could do, it wasn't simply a matter of giving people a little push in the direction I wanted.

“Daenor.”

I blinked. My mother was looking at me, her spoon halfway to her mouth.

“You're not eating.”

I looked down at my bowl. The stew had grown cold.

“Not hungry,” I said.

“You need to eat.”

“I've had a long day.”

“So you've said.” She gave me a look. “And you'll have another tomorrow. Eat while it's warm.”

I picked up my spoon and took a bite. The flavors were muted, distant.

My father cleared his throat. “I'll need you to grind more valerian root tomorrow. And check the stores of feverfew.”

“Fine.”

He studied me. “You look tired.”

“I am tired.”

“Then don't spend half the morning asleep under a tree.”

Lyra grinned. “He'll need a new hiding place now that you know his favorite.”

“I know all his hiding places,” Alaric said.

“That seems unfair,” I muttered.

Elara reached across the table and took my empty bread plate. “If you have enough energy to complain, you have enough energy to finish your stew.”

I managed another few bites. It wasn't much, but it seemed to satisfy her.

Lyra's eyes met mine across the table. She didn't say anything, but the question was there, hanging between us.

What happened today?

I looked away.

After dinner, the dishes were cleared. Elara washed, Lyra dried, and Alaric checked the clinic one last time. I sat on the bench, my head drooping, my eyelids heavy. The exhaustion was a physical weight, pressing me down into the wood.

“Daenor.” My father's voice. “Go to bed.”

I opened my mouth to argue. A yawn came out instead.

“That's what I thought.” He gestured toward the ladder. “You'll be useless tomorrow if you don't rest.”

I didn't fight it. I stood, my legs heavy, and climbed the ladder to the loft. The straw mattress was lumpy. The blanket smelled of lavender.

I lay down.

The needle was cold against my thigh. I pulled it out and held it up in the dim light filtering through the shutters. It looked like nothing. A sliver of dark glass. Unremarkable. Dead.

But I'd felt it burn. I'd felt it live.

I closed my hand around it and pressed it to my chest.

The exhaustion took me like a tide. I felt myself sinking, the world growing distant, the sounds of the cottage fading.

Just before sleep claimed me, I thought I felt it.

A pulse. Faint. Warm.

I couldn't tell whether it was an answer or simply a reminder that it was still there.