Chapter 7: Henbane

"Don't go in," Isaline said to the old soldier. "Help me with him first."

She knelt on the cold boards and took the young soldier's face in her hands.

His skin was hot and dry as paper.

She thumbed up one eyelid.

The pupil was huge, black almost to the rim.

But his breathing was slow. Far too slow for a heart going that fast under her fingers.

Henbane opens the eyes and races the heart.

Poppy slows the breath.

Somebody had given him both. It was the same mix as the physician's silver cup.

"Is he dying, Your Grace?"

"Not if you do what I say. Get him on his feet."

The old soldier hauled the young one up under the arms.

The young soldier's head rolled. He mumbled something about his mother's goats.

"Keep him walking. Up and down. Don't let him sit."

Isaline ran down to the kitchen in her ballgown and came back with mustard, salt, warm water and the cook's pot of coffee.

Back upstairs she mixed the mustard and salt into the water, held the young soldier's nose and poured.

He swallowed, choked and threw up over her green silk skirt and the old soldier's boots.

"Good," she said. "Again."

"Again, Your Grace?"

"Again. Whatever's in his belly is still working."

The second time he brought up red wine and something grainy.

Then she made him drink the coffee, black and bitter, a mouthful at a time, while the old man walked him.

Up and down. Up and down.

Somewhere in the second hour the young soldier's eyes started to follow her hand.

"Your Grace," he said. "I've been sick on you."

"You have."

"Somebody gave me wine. A maid. She said it was from the ball." He started to cry. "I'm not supposed to drink on duty."

"What did she look like?"

"I don't know. She had a hood. She was kind."