Free Duainfey by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee

way things were.
    It had been a very long time, indeed, since her body's infirmity had drawn tears.
    "You're all over sixes and sevens, aren't you, my lady?" she muttered. Well. She had schooled herself into what passed for patience and sweet calmness once, she could do it again. And again, if necessary. Sir Jennet surely expected a conformable wife, and she had no wish to disturb his peace—or hers!—by acting him a series of tragedies. All the rumble and ruction attending Caro's dance had knocked her off-center, that was all. A renewed application of discipline would set everything right.
    With this bracing thought in mind, Becca entered the kitchen.
    Harin was seated on a stool at the work table, a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits to hand, talking with Cook while the latter rolled out dough. Cook allowed no one else to make pastry; she had once told Becca that pie-making was better than prayer for settling the mind.
    "Good afternoon, Miss Beauvelley." Harin slid from the stool and bent her head respectfully. Wherever Harin had come from—and Sonet could not be persuaded to say—she had been taught a severe respect for the Landed. She persisted in all the forms even when they were kneeling side-by-side, weeding out a garden patch, and nothing Becca could say brought her to a lesser degree of formality. She'd finally given up, after an appeal to Sonet elicited the response that it was good for an apprentice to show respect to a master.
    "Good afternoon, Harin." Becca inclined her head fractionally, ignoring Cook's wink. "I see Cook is taking good care of you."
    "And Cook'll take good care of you, too, if you'll let her," that individual said irrepressively. "Just sit you down over there, Miss Becca, and I'll get you a cup of tea to go with one or two of those biscuits. You're getting thinner by the meal. I'm going to start believing that you don't like my cooking!"
    Becca blinked, but Cook had already turned toward the teapot. Across the table, Harin stood with head bowed still, which she would do until the Landed told her to do something else. Sighing to herself, Becca went 'round to the other stool and hitched herself up.
    "Please sit," she said to Harin, "and tell me how Sonet goes on."
    The girl got back on her stool with alacrity, head up, but still not meeting Becca's eyes.
    "The mistress is well. There's a sudden fever afoot—three came to us yesterday, and the mistress says that's only the start. Once it gets loose, it will run through every house in the village."
    "It will certainly do that," Becca said with feeling. "Has Sonet any idea yet of the cause? We've had such a fine spring that it seems unlikely—Thank you, Cook," she added as a teacup arrived at her elbow.
    "The mistress thinks it's the something come down on the spring winds. The winter was too warm, she says. Folk always sicken easy after a gentle winter."
    "Yes, I've heard that theory," Becca said, sipping her tea and adding to herself, many times .
    "That being so, the mistress wants us to have a good stock ready to dispense, and she wonders if you might have some feverease to spare her."
    "Of course, I do!" Becca said. "Come with me, and—"
    " After, " Cook said firmly, "you've drunk your tea and eaten one of those biscuits. Or two. There's more where those came from, if you finish the plate."
    Becca laughed, and slid a glance to Harin. "You see Cook rules me utterly."
    "Mrs. Clowder's biscuits are always delicious," Harin said seriously, using Cook's name. She hesitated before picking up her cup and looked at Becca directly over the rim. "It's true that you've lost weight, Miss Rebecca. It's very apparent to one like me, who hasn't seen you in a number of weeks." She sipped her tea, and Becca did the same, astonished as she was.
    "The mistress," Harin said eventually, "says that the healer is often the most at risk, because she is trained to look for signs of ill-health in others, and so forgets to look—within."
    Conscious of Cook's eye on