Free Snowbone by Cat Weatherill Page B

seemed endless. On and on they went, passing room after room. Then Butterbur stopped at a closed door with a small brass sign:
    SURGERY

Knock. Wait. Enter.
    “In here,” she said. And she opened the door and went in.

Chapter 26
    utterbur's surgery was a spacious, low-ceilinged room. Oil lights flickered against chaffinch-pink walls. Bottles and jars jostled for space on the shelves. Pots and pestles gleamed on the worktops and, in the middle of the room, a polished wooden table stood square and dogged, with a fat, leather-bound book lying enticingly open upon it.
    But the most curious thing about the surgery was its scent. It didn't smell of disinfectant, soap or polish. It smelled of flowers, herbs and spices. And beneath that, Snowbone caught the warm, musky scent of animals and hay. Soon she discovered why. There was a stable door at the far end of the room, and when she looked over it, she found an animal hospital.
    Oh!” she said. “Oh!”
    She turned to Butterbur, and Figgis couldn't help but notice the expression on her face. Snowbone, hard little Snow-bone, had gone soft. Gooey soft. With her wide eyes and wondering mouth, she looked as if she'd found fairies.
    “Can I go in?” said Snowbone.
    To Figgis's surprise, his aunt smiled. In that moment, Butter-bur had seen herself in Snowbone. Many moons ago, she had been just the same: a guarded, prickly little girl whose heart was open only to animals. She nodded.
    Snowbone stepped through the stable door into ankle-deep hay and started exploring. She immediately noticed the patients weren't penned. They were mingling in perfect harmony. A bandaged pig was dozing beside a mule with saddle sores. A cow with hoof rot was sharing a hay bag with an itchy goat. On a beam above sat a cat with an amputated tail. On a cushion in the corner sprawled a dog with a bellyache.
    Snowbone went to each in turn, noting the strange-smelling ointments smeared on every wound. And when she returned to the surgery, she found Butterbur was mixing up something similar to treat Figgis. A small stove had been lit, and Butterbur was adding handfuls of this and sprinklings of that to a bubbling pot.
    “This is nearly ready,” said Butterbur. “Take off your shirt and sit down.”
    Figgis obeyed.
    Butterbur took a large, triangular piece of muslin and spooned the mixture onto it, then tied it round Figgis's body so the poultice was lying against the troublesome stump of his arm. “All done!” she said. “Now, I think it's time we joined the others for dinner.”
    And what a dinner it was! Wildwood pie, roast potatoes, carrots and gravy, with toffee-baked apples and cream to follow. The travelers feasted like kings and talked till midnight. Finally, they retired to their rooms, and if they found it strange that such a modest house should contain dozens of bedrooms,they didn't say so. They just clambered into their beds and, with the snow piling up outside, fell asleep wishing they could stay till spring.
    The house grew colder. Nothing could be heard except the ticking of a clock, the scratching of a mouse … and a bedroom door, slowly being opened. Footsteps padded across the floorboards. A hand reached out. A sleeper awoke.
    “Blackeye,” whispered Butterbur. “Come with me. Now.”

Chapter 27
    utterbur took Blackeye to the surgery. The oil lamps were burning low; the animals were sleeping; the scent of the poultice lingered in the air.
    Butterbur pulled a stool out from under the table and sat Blackeye upon it. Then she took his face into her hands and turned it so his left eye—the black one—was facing her.
    “Tell me,” she said, examining it closely. “How good is your eyesight?”
    “Pretty good,” said Blackeye.
    “Just pretty good? No better than anyone else's?”
    Blackeye thought for a moment. “You're right,” he said. “It
is
better, now I think about it. When we were back at the beach, a ship went down in the storm and I saw it long before anyone else. I