Chapter 13: The Basket

I put the invitation in the drawer of the infirmary desk, under the gauze.

I didn't answer it.

For ten days I worked.

The boy with the sling came in every morning so I could check his fingers were pink.

On Tuesday he brought me a rock with a fossil in it.

"That's a snail," he said. "From before people."

I put it on the windowsill next to the healer's jar of willow bark.

At eleven that morning Wyatt's Beta knocked on the infirmary door.

He was holding a wicker basket out in front of him with both hands.

"Redmoor courier left it at the bridge," he said. "Same man as last time. He said it's from your mother."

I took it.

It was a pretty basket.

A blue gingham cloth was tucked over the top.

Under the cloth there was a jar of dark honey with a ribbon on the lid.

A yellow tin with a printed chamomile flower on it.

And a tiny white knitted cap, small enough to fit over my fist.

I held the cap for a long moment.

My mother knitted.

She used to knit through every argument in our house, fast, with her eyes down.

There was a little card tucked into the side of the basket.

For my girl. Rest and drink something warm. I'm sorry for everything. Mom.

I read it twice.

I took the yellow tin to the little stove in the corner and filled the kettle.

My mother had stood on that bridge in her nightgown and said she couldn't help me.

Now she'd sent a cap.

I pried the lid off the tin.

It smelled like chamomile and dried apple.

I spooned some into a mug and poured the water over it.

Steam curled up past my face.

The back door banged and the healer came in from the yard with a basket of her own, full of muddy roots.

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