Chapter 8: Four Years

They carried him to the keeper's infirmary, a stone room off the Hall.

It held a single cot and a bank of lit candles.

Two healers worked on his back with wet cloths and a pot of green salve.

I stood in the doorway and did not go in.

I stayed only because Maud had caught my sleeve in the corridor and asked me to.

"Not for him," she said. "For me. Please."

So I stood against the frame with my arms crossed and watched the salve go on.

I knew exactly how cold it was.

Clara had followed the captains to the door.

A healer put a hand on her chest and said, "Out, please. We need the room."

"I'm the one who looks after him," Clara said.

"Not tonight."

She looked at me over the healer's arm.

It was a quick look, not hateful and not frightened, and it measured me in a way I did not like.

Then she went.

Rafe came round near midnight.

He lay on his stomach with his cheek on a folded cloth, and his face was grey with sweat.

His eyes found me in the doorway at once.

"What did you put in me?" he said.

His voice was a rasp.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Whatever you put in my food." He tried to lift his head and could not.

"I've never felt like this. It's poison, and you've had four years to do it."

Two of the captains by the wall shifted their feet.

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