Juliana gave him a half smile of approval. She had rubbed the green salve into his father’s muscular chest. It smelled faintly of mint and Tristan felt reassured that this was something akin to his sister Frida’s curative potions.
“What now?” he asked.
Juliana put her hands on her narrow hips and fixed him with a stare. “What happens now is up to you, my lord.”
His father made a sound, somewhere between a gasp and a groan. Tristan leaned over anxiously, but he seemed to settle again.
“What do you mean?” he asked. “I already said you should do whatever it takes to save him.”
“Are those your orders, that I doeverythingin my power? Or should I restrict myself to the tincture and the salve?”
He looked at her, confusion clouding his brow. “What else is there?”
A draught must have entered the stuffy chamber, for the slender candle on the nightstand began to dance and splutter.
“‘Whatever it takes’?” she echoed.
At last, understanding dawned. Tristan gripped the carved wooden headboard for support. “Magic?” he whispered.
Juliana tightened her lips. “You could call it magic. You could call it prayer.”
Strength left his legs at such heresy. “My mother would never—” he began.
“Your mother was on her knees praying to your God when we first came in. The Gods of the old religion can be called on in different ways. Are you strong enough in your faith, Tristan de Neville, that you confidently assert the dominion of the new?”
In his state of exhaustion and grief, Tristan did not even fully understand the question. His mind whirred with contradictions. He should order Juliana to restrict her healing to the use of herbs found in the natural world.
But what if Father then dies?
Would he ever forgive himself?
Tristan took a deep breath, his knuckles growing white as he gripped the headboard. He wanted Mirrie by his side; her calm, practical mind would assess the situation and deliver a sensible verdict. But she had walked away from him as soon as Juliana entered the keep.
He was on his own.
He looked down into the beloved, familiar face of his father. The earl was tanned golden-bronze by the summer sun. Faint laughter lines creased the corners of his closed eyes, but he was not an old man. He deserved every chance at life.
Whatever it takes.
Without lifting his gaze, Tristan nodded his head. “Do what you must,” he said. “But I cannot be a part of it.”
“I would not ask that of you.” Juliana’s voice was smooth. “Will you wait with your mother?”
Tristan’s stomach churned as if he might be sick.Did I make the right decision?He shook his head, one hand going to his mouth as if to keep his emotions locked inside. “Nay, she would ask questions that I cannot answer.” He staggered over to the shuttered window, feeling like he was on board a ship in a storm.
“You may open the shutters,” Juliana said. “I do not require darkness.”
He turned to question her, but she had already positioned herself at his father’s head, her palms outstretched and hovering inches over his face. Tristan whipped himself back to the window and slowly, quietly, began to draw back the shutters.
The change in the room was instantaneous. Bright sunlight flooded in along with fresh air and the melody of birdsong. He rested his hands on the window ledge and breathed it all in. Down below in the castle gardens, the big, blowsy heads of pink roses reached towards him. He fancied he could catch a trace of their scent, carrying its promise of vibrancy and renewal. Faint shouts came from the stable yard, together with the wicker of ponies in the paddocks. Life went on at Wolvesley, despite the gloom and sorrow of his father’s chamber.
He tipped his face towards the sun, closing his eyes and allowing his busy mind to slow. The rigidity in his face and shoulders began to ease. He felt almost as if someone, his mother mayhap, was standing behind him, running calming hands over the tense muscles in his back, encouraging him to relax, reassuring him that all would be well.
All will be well.
It was an idea potent enough to make him weep.
His knees sagged with the sharpness of his grief. Suddenly, he no longer cared what ancient healing arts Juliana was practising on his father, he wanted to see. He couldn’t waste another moment of his father’s life, looking in the wrong direction.
