Sin Eater's Daughter 2 - The Sleeping Prince (9 page)

“Then save me from wasting more and tell me what’s in it.”

His expression becomes closed, his gold eyes dimming. “Be content, Errin, with what you have. I’ve already broken several vows by giving it to you. I can’t tell you any more.”

“She slept through the night, Silas,” I say. “She looked at me, this morning. She touched me. And if it’s because of your potion, if it can bring her back, then I need to know what it is. Silas, I need it. Please don’t dangle this in front of me and then take it away. I’ve lost too much.”

I turn away, feeling an itch in my throat and burning behind my eyes. Hopelessness bubbles up and I have to clench my jaw to stop from crying.

“Errin?” he says, and I shake my head. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I wanted to help.”

Then a hand, tentative, on my shoulder and I freeze.

I hold my breath; the weight of his hand feels like a ballast and I have to fight to not lean into it. I’ve never been able to figure out how I feel about him; sometimes he infuriates me, other times … I know that sometimes his voice does strange things to my stomach if I’m not braced for it. I know I’ve spent far too much time looking at his mouth, and not because it was the only way to read his feelings before I saw him uncloaked. I’m sure that the mysterious man in my dreams is my mind’s attempt at creating a more responsive version of Silas, which is so humiliating.

Because I know the real Silas has no feelings for me. Not like that.

Four weeks after we began our strange working relationship, I went to his cottage to deliver an order, a harmless camphor and mint rub. Nothing special.

I was tired to the bone; between my strange dreams and my mother’s first transformation, I was sleepwalking through the days. I’d been consumed with trying to take care of us both and make sure no one in the village had seen our weakness, going to the woods and gathering, making endless potions to try to break her malaise, treating the scratches on her arms, foraging for food and trading where I could. From dawn until midnight I worked, never stopping, pushing Lief and Papa far from my mind, knowing I couldn’t afford to break down too.

But as the moon approached I’d noticed her eyes following me around the room, her fingers curling into claws. And then I’d accidentally locked her in overnight, and saved my own life. I’d already endured two long and increasingly traumatic nights broken by her cursing and scratching and slamming, only for her to fall silent and lifeless when the sun rose. I’d been poring over the old stories in the book from the moment we knew the Sleeping Prince had returned, so I’d known the name for what it was that she was becoming, with red eyes and a vicious tongue. I’d recognized it.

I hadn’t fully believed it until she’d knocked me to the ground and chipped my tooth.

So when I took Silas his ointment, I wasn’t in my right mind. It’s not an excuse; I was scared, and exhausted, and grieving. In the last two moons my entire world had changed, and so when he’d offered the smallest kindness, I’d … I’d misunderstood.

He invited me into his cottage, as he always did, and as ever he held out his hand for the small jar, and I did the same for the coin. I noticed from our very first meeting that he always wore his gloves and his hood, and that he went to pains not to touch me. So I was surprised when his fingers reached under my chin to tilt my face up towards his.

“You look tired,” he said, the rumble of his voice stirring something inside me.

“I’ve been busy.” I tried for a smile and his fingers tightened on my jaw.

“What happened to your tooth?” He peered at the chip in my front tooth and I closed my mouth, trying to keep it covered when I replied.

“I fell.”

“Into a door?” His voice was dark and angry.

“No, Silas, a floor. A real one. After a real fall.”

“At home?”

“Yes.” I pulled my face from his hand, unnerved by his questions and by my own strange response to being so close to him. I was aware of him in a way I hadn’t been aware of anyone before, and I was aware of myself too, aware of how tall he was, how angular compared to me. How close he stood. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my face when he spoke. I could smell him, a faint scent of mint and old incense.

He chewed his lip, his head tilted. Then he spoke again. “You would tell me if someone hurt you, wouldn’t you?”

At that I burst into tears. I couldn’t stop myself, couldn’t cope at all with this small kindness. He was still mostly a stranger, a customer, but he was the first person to be nice, or what had passed for nice, to me in moons. I threw myself at him, burying myself in his chest and sobbing. Then, miraculously, he folded his arms around me and held me. He kept his arms loose, but he held me until I stopped shaking, letting me weep on to his tunic. He stroked my hair throughout, his fingers tangling in it, smoothing it, gently separating out the knots. It felt so good.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice a rumble against my ear.

I looked up, into the shadowy depths of his hood, as he waited for my answer.

I kissed him.

I’d never kissed anyone before, but I kissed him, moving suddenly to press my lips against his. For one, two, three beats of my heart we stayed like that, my mouth on his. I thought that his lips moved against mine gently, so soft they might have been the brush of wings. I thought he was kissing me back.

Then he pushed me away with such force that I almost fell.

“No,” he said, wiping his mouth as though I’d dirtied him.

I turned immediately and tried to run but he pulled me back, holding me at arm’s length.

“Sorry,” he said, breathing hard. “I’m sorry I pushed you. And that I shouted. But you can’t… You mustn’t… Don’t, Errin. Please.”

In my life I’d never known such shame, and I nodded mutely. He let me go, and I ran home and made myself some poppy tea. The following morning I woke with a headache, a pain in my heart when I thought of him, and a note under the door asking for some willow bark salve.

We’ve never spoken of it, and until he took my hand in front of Unwin, we hadn’t touched.

I shrug slightly, dislodging his hand, and he removes it immediately. My shoulder feels cold in the place it rested.

“Did you want something?” I say flatly.

“I was on my way to meet my contact. I wanted to check on you. Both of you.”

“Thanks to you, we just had the best night we’ve had in three moons,” I say, and his face falls. “I’ve used most of it up trying to understand it, and I can’t. I admit I can’t; I need your help, and there’s only one drop left. Tell me what’s in it. Please.”

“You can’t make this, Errin. Nor should you want to.”

“Why not?”

“I wish…” he begins, then shakes his head. “I can try to get you some more. That’s all I can do.”

I look back at him. “How much? Could you get enough to last me a year?”

He makes a strange face, his lips pulled back, his cheeks paling.

“I’ll pay you for it, I’m not asking for favours.”

“It’s not that. I can’t—”

“You can’t tell me,” I cut across him. “Of course not. It’s probably a secret, right, Silas?”

“You’re not being fair.”

I shake my head at him. “Don’t talk to me about fair, Silas Kolby.”

He looks at me, his expression wretched, but I can’t feel sympathy for him. I turn away from him and wait until I hear the door close softly behind me. Then I return to the table. One more try.

Later, when I fall asleep, I dream of the man again. This time, we’re not in the apothecary, or my hut, or anywhere I’ve been before. It’s a small, stone chamber, simply furnished. It’s cold and dank, and something about it makes me believe we’re underground. The man sits on a wooden chair, leaning over a table stained with dark patches. He’s hunched over, looking defeated and weary, and I feel sad for him.

“Come here, sweetling,” he says, sensing me, and I go to him. He wraps his arms around my waist and rests his head against my stomach. “What a mess,” he sighs. “What a mess.”

He reaches up and pulls me down, so I’m curved over him, then presses his lips to my throat. My eyes flutter closed and he kisses his way along my jaw. When he stops I feel dizzy.

“I have you though, don’t I?” he asks, his mouth on my ear, his tongue flickering over it lightly.

I find myself nodding.

I’m woken by banging sometime later, and bitter disappointment and cold air cool the sweat on my brow as I sit up, disoriented. My first thought is that the potion doesn’t work after all. Last night it was a coincidence that she was quiet.

Then the knock comes again, faintly, three raps.

On the front door. Not my mother’s door.

Every single terrible possibility in the world crosses my mind: that it’s Unwin; that it’s Kirin and his soldiers; that it’s raiders, or thieves. My best hope is that it’s Silas, but given what happened earlier, that’s fairly unlikely. I scramble out of the bed and freeze, muttering,
Please go away
over and over, under my breath. Silence, and then the knock comes again, more insistent, louder, and my heart sinks. Soldiers, then.

The latch rattles and I dart forward, realizing too late that the door isn’t locked. As it swings open, I see a figure holding a large bundle in its arms.

“Help,” Silas says, staggering to my pallet and dropping a body on to it.

I close the front door, then move to where Silas is crouched next to what I think is a man. His face looks like a slab of raw meat. His nose is smeared across his face, one cheek slack, his hair blood-soaked. He’s unconscious, and I press my fingers to his wrist. To my surprise I feel a pulse, faint as the brush of a moth’s wing, and I count the beats, concerned by how weak they are, how far apart.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” Silas says, sounding pained, and helpless. “I’m sorry.”

“I need water.” I don’t look at him, continuing my assessment of the man’s injuries. He’s lucky to be alive. I don’t think he’s likely to stay that way. “I know it’s risky, but…”

“I’ll get it.”

While he’s gone I reach for my knife, cutting along the lines of the man’s tunic and exposing a battered, muscular chest that’s as bruised as his face. Gently I press along his ribcage, trying to feel for fractures, but can find none. I pass my hands over his left hip, then down the leg, exploring the knee and ankle firmly. Satisfied that it’s unbroken, I begin along the right.

“Got it,” Silas says, racing back into the cottage and slamming the door shut, making me wince and turn to my mother’s door. We both pause, eyes wide and waiting.

“I’m sorry,” Silas says, and I shake my head.

“Forget it. The water needs to be boiled.” I nod at the bucket in his hands, noting the severed rope, and wince inside at the questions the soldiers will have when they try to use the well tomorrow. He carries the water straight to the fireplace, sloshing some of it into the pipkin. I hear him build a fire, the rustling of light papers and the faint cracking of flames. Then he’s standing over me again, watching me finish my examination.

“We need bandages,” I say. “Take one of the clean blankets from the washing line. Tear it up into long strips.”

He fetches one and sits near me, tearing with a violence that puts me on edge. For a while the ripping of fabric is the only sound, and eventually I start to speak, to fill the gaps around that awful noise.

“His nose is broken, and I think his right cheekbone too,” I begin. “I suspect his ribs are fractured: two of them, maybe more. His legs seem to be unbroken, though his right ankle is badly swollen, so I can’t be sure. It looks to me as though he’s been beaten severely.”

“Will he live?” Silas asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. I move to the table and rummage in my kit for willow bark and arnica balm. “Add some salt to the water,” I tell Silas before I continue. “Do you know him? Is he the person you were going to meet?”

Silas’s gaze is fixed on the injured man, his mouth open. His hood wasn’t up when he arrived; his hands are trembling. He’s losing it; whatever wherewithal he had to get the man here, it’s leaving him.

“Silas, I need your help,” I snap at him. “I need a stick. A sturdy one. About this long.” I hold up my hands six inches apart.

He looks at me, his expression blank, and I realize he’s useless to me right now. So I haul myself up, wiping my hands on my already stained dress, and sneak out into the darkness. It’s a clear night, and above me a hundred thousand stars wink conspiratorially at one another. The moon is full, pale and heavy in the dark high over my head, the world lit up bright as day, though it’s as if all the colour has been leached out of it. It’s not even midnight yet.

I find what I’m looking for quickly, an oak branch that’s thin and straight enough to use as a splint, and I turn back to the cottage. I freeze when I see a shape, light glancing off something on the outskirts of the trees behind the hut, before it moves deeper into the shadowy forest. I remain still and narrow my eyes, scanning the treeline for movement, a flash of chain mail or a blue sash, the covered face of a raider, or whoever attacked Silas’s friend. I wait, counting heartbeats, until sixty have passed and I’ve seen nothing else. Then I run, as fast as I can back into the hut, closing and bolting the door behind me and leaning against it, taking a moment to calm down before I head back to my patient.

Silas is standing at the table, staring blindly at the vials and mess on it, and I hold the stick out to him, telling him to strip the bark. He startles and begins to do as I’ve asked, and I set about cutting the man’s trousers away, lamenting because the fabric is fine, tightly woven and sewn with small, neat stitches. Whoever this man is, he’s come from somewhere with money. I peel and tear the fabric, stiff with dried blood and muck, away from his skin.

“Can you save him?” Silas asks, so quietly that I have to look at him to be sure he’s spoken.

“I don’t know.” I begin to splint the man’s leg, binding the stick to it with the bandages Silas made.

“Please try. I’ll do anything. Anything.” Silas’s gold eyes fix on mine, too bright, and I nod, once, before turning back to my patient.

I’ve always been good with plants. On our old farm there was a small patch of land that my father gave to me for my thirteenth birthday, good, fertile ground; he marked the plot out with a tiny fence he made himself.

“That’s for our Errin,” he announced to us all as we looked at the bare earth. “So she can grow her herbs and save us a fortune at the apothecary.”

That was a joke; the four of us were rudely healthy. Until the day my father fell we’d never called on the apothecary for any reason other than for me to request an apprenticeship.

The first I knew of his accident was when my brother raced on to the village green. I was sitting with Lirys, half listening to her telling me some story about Kirin when Lief arrived, bone-white and shaking.

“Come,” he said, and terror stabbed at my heart as I lifted my skirts and followed him.

We raced all the way home in silence.

At the farm he ran through the kitchen, leaving a trail of muddy prints across the stone floor. I remember thinking how cross Mama would be when she saw it; how she’d scold us both and make us clean it up. I didn’t know she’d already cleaned it once, washing Papa’s blood away.

I followed the trail through the farmhouse to my mother and father’s room.

“What happened?” I gasped, bracing myself against the door frame. Mama sat beside my father, holding a cloth to his leg. The room smelt of metal and alcohol and fear.

“Bloody bull,” Papa said, trying to raise a smile on his ashen face. “I was moving him from the east paddock and he went for me.”

“He gored you?” I asked.

“No,” Lief said. “Father outran him. But he went over the fence too fast and landed on a pitchfork. It gouged his leg.”

“Show me,” I said, walking towards the bed and gently pulling my mother’s hand away.

The blood didn’t gush out like a fountain, or pulse with the beat of my father’s heart, and relief flooded me. Nothing vital had been ruptured. It pooled in the wound instead, the gash becoming a reservoir.

“We need to clean it.”

Mama nodded and took a deep breath. “What must I do?”

“We need fresh water,” I said. “Lief, boil the kettle, keep it boiling. Wash one of the copper bowls out with boiled water, then fill it, add salt, and bring it here. Mama, if you bring the brandy and clean cloths, and fetch your sewing kit. Clean the wound, clean it thoroughly with the water. Only the saltwater.”

“And the brandy?”

“Give it to Papa. As much as he wants.”

“What will you do?” she asked.

“I’ll be in my garden.”

I’d been learning under the apothecary for two years. Five days a week I entered his fragranced rooms and learned about herbs and plants and cures. More than once I’d argued good-naturedly with him over advice written in the Materia Medica and some of the methods he used to treat patients, but Master Pendie was a kind man, and he’d forgotten more about medicine than anyone else knew.

Papa was so proud of me. “You have my grandmother’s brains,” he’d say. “She was clever enough to get herself out of the castle when the people turned on the nobility. She was clever enough to get herself and my father away and hide and build a life, right here in this farmhouse. Good to know you’re a clever girl too.”

Papa gave me a garden and it was there that I went, running my hands through my plants, cataloguing them and choosing the ones I’d need to help me. Comfrey to stop the bleeding. Guinea pepper would be better but I had not yet managed to make it take in my garden, and I didn’t want to waste time running to the apothecary for some. Agrimony and comfrey should suffice in its place, yarrow as well, to be sure. Lavender, chamomile and prunella to purify the wound.

With my arms full of leaves I ran back to the house. My brother stood in the kitchen, tapping his foot on the floor as he glared at the kettle.

“Is it not done yet?” I asked.

“Mother has some,” he said. “This is the second lot.”

From upstairs we heard a shout of pain and both winced.

“He won’t be able to work for a while, will he?” Lief said.

“No, he’ll need to rest until it’s healed.”

“You’ll need to help me, then.”

“What do you mean by that?” I put the leaves on the table, moving around the kitchen for oats, muslin and more clean bowls.

“I mean no gallivanting off to the village to gossip about boys when there’s work to be done here.”

“My work is in the village, at the apothecary, remember?”

“You’ll need to take some time away, then, won’t you?”

“You’re not my father, Lief.”

“No, I’m not. Our father is upstairs bleeding because you were too lazy to put the tools away.”

I stilled, turning to look at him. “He never asked me to.”

He met my gaze, his eyes glittering with anger. “First, you shouldn’t need to be asked. And second, he tried to ask you this morning but you pretended not to hear.”

“I didn’t hear!” I protested, guilt prickling at me, though technically it was true, I hadn’t heard, because I’d been rushing to get to the village. “Are you saying this is my fault?”

“Here.” He slammed the copper kettle on to the scarred wooden table. “I’m going to check on him. Family first, Errin. Remember that.”

He left me standing there, numb, before I remembered I had a job to do. I ground up the comfrey and the agrimony and the yarrow, mixed it with oats to make a poultice, adding hot water and a little milk to bind it. I wrapped the whole thing in muslin, wringing it out and then racing up the stairs with it.

The room smelt of fresh blood when I returned, and Mama stepped aside for me while I examined the wound. Now clean, it was deeper than I’d thought. He must have fallen with most of his weight on it.

“How much brandy has he had?” I asked Mama, and she nodded to the bottle. A third of it was gone. “Hold this inside the wound. It will be messy but it will stop the bleeding. Once it’s stopped, we can clean it again, then it’ll need stitching.”

Mama nodded and took the poultice. Papa cried out again when she pressed it into the wound and Lief picked up the bottle and held it to his mouth.

“I’ll go and mix the next part,” I said, and Lief nodded tersely.

Back in the kitchen I set the kettle to boil again, adding the lavender, chamomile and prunella to my mortar and grinding it all together. I poured in a little water, and when it became a paste, I added a glob of pig grease to make my salve. Pig grease is best for using on men.

My father had passed out by this point, either from the pain or the brandy or a combination of the two, and it made my job much easier. When Mama pulled the poultice away, the flow of the blood had slowed, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

“I need you to help me now,” I said to my mother. “I need you to pull the skin together so I can stitch it.”

Though she turned a faint green colour, she nodded, and I threaded the needle she had brought me. But no sooner had I pierced the skin for the first stitch than she had run from the room, her hand to her mouth.

“Lief?” I asked, and he came, sitting on the other side of the bed.

Slowly, we stitched our father back together.

As I was smearing the salve on his leg, I looked up to find Papa watching me.

“How do you feel?” I asked.

“As though I fell on a pitchfork and then was sewn back together by my daughter. And I believe I might be a little drunk,” he slurred gently.

“Nothing unusual, then?” I said, and he smiled blearily.

I rose and kissed him on the forehead and he gripped my hand.

“You’re such a good girl,” he said. “I’m so proud of you.”

I didn’t feel much like a good girl with Lief’s words still ringing in my ears.

The following morning Papa seemed well. He was sitting up in bed complaining of a sore head, of all things, as I checked the wound and smeared more of my salve on it. I left him in the care of Mama while I reluctantly helped Lief with the chores. One of the cows kicked me, and though it left nothing more than an angry bruise, it put me in a foul mood for the rest of the day. Lief and I ate separately, both of us seething because he’d demanded I make the supper and I had refused.

“But it’s your job.”

“Because I’m a girl?”

“Yes.”

I glared at him. “You’d better not let Papa hear you saying that.”

“I’ve never seen Father cook a meal, have you? That’s Mother’s job.”