Free The Poison Diaries: Nightshade by Maryrose Wood Page B

they’ll not find one who’ll come on foot on a Sunday, that’s certain.” The woman clucks her tongue. “I got a glimpse of the girl. She’s sick enough, to be sure. Her cheeks are red as a harlot’s.”
    â€œI am sorry to hear that.” I speak sympathetically, but inwardly I am ablaze with anger. Why Maryam? Why now, when I am packed to leave? If anyone else of our group fell sick, I would walk away from their suffering with a heart of ice.
    I could help Maryam, easily. But to betray myselfas a healer now would be too dangerous, especially since the news of the murder at Hulne Abbey has spread. How long before someone remembers that the dead herbalist’s daughter also had the skill to heal, and to kill?
    Even as I sit there, staring at my cold tea, a war rages inside me. The longer I stay, the more peril I am in. But she is a child, an innocent. Unlike most adults – unlike me – she does not deserve even a moment of pain.
    Swollen throat, high fever, scarlet cheeks – the kind of fever she has is one I know to be dangerous. It is also not difficult to cure, if one has the correct herbs on hand, and the knowledge of how to use them.
    â€œIn what room are they staying?” I ask it casually.
    â€œThird floor, the last room in the hall.” The woman gives me a stern look of warning. “But don’t you go visiting there, unless you want to risk coming down with the same fever.”
    â€œLord, no! A catching fever, running through the company. That’s the last thing we need,” hercompanion adds. “Best keep away, for the sake of all.”
    â€œThat is why I ask where they are staying.” I add a splash of milk to my cold tea and watch it swirl as I stir, a tiny whirlpool of fate that is about to suck me down into its depths. “I would prefer to avoid them if I can. I have always had a strong fear of illness.”
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    I pretend to drink my tea until the women leave. When the way is clear and there is no one around to observe me, I go at once to the third floor and stand outside the door to the rug sellers’ room. Still, I hesitate. Perhaps the girl is not as sick as those women said , I tell myself. Perhaps there is nothing I need do but offer my sympathy.
    Why visit her at all, then? The evil prince croons doubts in my head.
    If there is some way I can help her condition without exposing myself, I will.
    And what if that is not enough?
    My hand hovers in front of the door. Do I dareknock? Do I dare leave without knocking?
    Careful, lovely, the voice of my master warns. Locked gates are kept locked for a reason. Open them even a crack, and you never know what demons might escape…
    My knock is so faint, it is as if I do not wish it to be heard. Even so, the door opens at once.
    â€œIbrahim! Has the doctor come?” It is Maryam’s mother. She looks worn and exhausted. “Oh… it is you. Miss Rowan.” She peers past me, down the empty hall. “I thought it might be my husband.”
    â€œNo. I am sorry.” From where I stand, I see that the family of three shares a room that is scarcely bigger than mine. “I heard Maryam was ill. I came by to learn how she fares.”
    â€œNot well.” Her mother steps aside. When I see the girl, my heart sinks. Her cheeks look painted scarlet, and the whites of her eyes have taken on a yellow cast. She whimpers every time she swallows.
    I cannot stop my hands from doing what they know how to do. They fly to her forehead to checkher fever, to her neck to seek a pulse. I bend over and press my ear to her chest to listen to her breathing. “Has she taken any liquids at all?” I ask the mother. “Broth? Tea?”
    â€œI try, but she cries in pain and lets it roll out of her mouth again. Are you a doctor?” Her mother’s voice is strangled with hope. “Do they have women doctors in England?”
    â€œNo.” The situation is grave.