Chapter 11: Through the Door

The first snow came on the thirty-third day, and so did the Margrave's captain.

Isaline heard him before she saw him: boots on the north wing stairs, two at a time, and a big voice shouting for his lord.

She opened her door.

A huge grizzled man stood in the corridor, white to the knees with road snow, holding his hat.

The Margrave was already on his feet.

"Well?" he said.

The captain looked at him and then, past him, at Isaline.

"Only three dead, my lord," he said.

"Three since we got home with the bark. In twelve days. And those three were already grey when we came."

The Margrave didn't move.

"Three," he said.

"We steeped it the way the lady said. A third of what the physicians use."

"Everyone else stopped shaking inside two days, my lord. The smith's girl. The baker's twins. The whole mill house."

The captain's voice cracked.

"The priest says it's a miracle. I told him it was vinegar."

The Margrave put one hand flat against the wall.

He stood like that with his head down for a long moment.

Then he turned around, crossed the corridor in two steps and took both Isaline's hands in his.

He didn't say anything.

He just held them, hard.

His hands were shaking.

"I told you," she said. "A third of the bark."

"You told me."

"You didn't believe me."

"I melted my mother's silver on it," he said hoarsely. "I believed you."

The captain cleared his throat and looked at the ceiling exactly the way Lothaire's valet always did.

The Margrave let go of her hands.

He didn't step back.

That afternoon a jeweller came up to the north wing with a velvet tray and a little brass scale.

Isaline gave him her mother's sapphires.

He turned the collar over in his fingers for a long time.

"Four thousand, Your Grace," he said at last. "It's a crime to break them up."