Free The Soul Consortium by Simon West-Bulford Page B

again. I see my older brothers, the playful spark still visible in their eyes and the laughter of youth plain to me in every wrinkle that the years of hardship have tried to erase. Naturally, they are struck by impending grief, but such kindly natures cannot be concealed, even in times such as these. And I see my sister, strong and steadfast in an hour of need, stern but always practical.
    “What are you staring at, Dominique? Have you nothing better to do than smile and gloat while Mama is passing away? I suggest you reacquaint yourself with your duties and attend to her fever. At least see that she has a little relief in her final hour.”
    I bow my head but keep my gaze on Francesca. She is right, of course—my sentimentality has caused my attention to drift; it should be on Mama.
    “No, Fran,” says Livio, moving a hand to my sister’s wrist, “there is little point in that now anyway. The cleric told us that Mama is beyond the help of care and herbs. Only the anointing of holy oil and prayer can bring her any hope, be that relief or cure.”
    Fran shrugs him off. “You may be the eldest, but you are not at all wise. The anointing of oil is for those who are incapable of prayer. Mama is neither demonized nor asleep. If there is any hope left at all, she needs a physician, not this ineffectual girl.” She waves her hand toward me as if shaking a spider from her fingers.
    Arrigo, the younger of my two brothers and easily the more handsome, leans in with his elbow on his knee and whispers, “You should both be ashamed. You most of all, Fran. You speak of Father Pirellio as if he is wrong, as if there is no power in the anointing of God. And, Livio, you told us that Pirellio was not prepared to perform the sanctification, so why speak of it?”
    “I said that he wouldn’t perform unless he was paid, Brother.”
    “If it’s money he wants, then—”
    A rasping cough cuts the argument short as Mama lifts a shaking hand. “Hush. Can’t an old woman die in peace?”
    From the fireplace I retrieve a cloth that’s been soaking in a kettle of herb-infused water and wring it out, then press it to Mama’s forehead, filtering out my brothers’ discussion that has lowered to whispers and avoiding my sister’s iron gaze.
    “Is the water fresh, Dominique?” Fran shoves Livio before I have a chance to answer. “Go and check the water. You know what she’s like.”
    Livio stands, clears his throat, and with a derisive sideways glance toward Fran, strides over to the fireplace to examine my medicinal brew. A flare of his nostrils and a creasing of his brow tell me he disapproves of the mixture.
    “I drew the water an hour ago. The herbs were fresh this morning, and the cloth is new,” I say, looking up at Livio as he shakes his head at Fran.
    She scowls. “And when did you last change her bedding or bathe her? Even the lavender fails to mask the stench.”
    “Her?” Mama tries to raise herself but fails. “Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here—I’m not dead yet.”
    “I’m sorry. She—”
    “Oh, leave her be,” Mama wheezes. “Dominique has the strength of a kitten. If she moves me again, I fear she will break one of my bones this time. The girl is useless.”
    “You didn’t think to use rose water?” Livio taps my shoulder. “Its medicinal properties are without question. The plague doctors use it all the time.”
    “I’m sorry. Mama doesn’t have the plague, and I thought that a more comforting aroma would—”
    “Comforting?” Fran says. “For how long have you neglected to use the common remedies and thought yourself better advised than physicians and clergymen?”
    Arrigo stands from his stool after watching our exchange with mild amusement. “Steady, Fran.” A laugh hovers on the edge of his words. “We can’t expect our little sister to have the same talents as our friendly physician, can we? After all, she was never the sibling with the sharpest mind.”
    “What’s in it?”