Breenoa pulled a table closer to the bed and set up a pitcher and bowl along with any number of colored bottles and crocks from a large basket. “We be honored to serve ye, Lady Emily. Himself has been waiting for ye for such a verra long time.” The girl beamed with an adoring smile and bowed.
“Breenoa.” Grennove shot a stern look over the wire-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of her bulbous nose. “Run see if Mrs. Thistlebran has chosen a maid yet for our lady, and also ensure there is tea heading this way. No matter what be wrong, a cup of tea never goes amiss.”
The our lady title worried Emily, but she tried to shake it off as a regional thing. After all, several at Seven Cairns referred to her on a regular basis as our Emily. “Tea would be lovely,” Emily said, hoping to nudge the oddly fan girlish Breenoa out of the room before the girl dropped to her knees and started worshipping her.
As soon as Breenoa left them, Grennove clucked like a restless hen while sprinkling some sort of yellowish powder into the steaming bowl of water on the table. “Pay her no mind, m’lady. She is verra young.”
“She is fine. Really.” Emily recoiled at the rotten egg odor rising from the basin. “What is that?”
“Dinna fash yerself, m’lady. ’Tis a poultice for bandaging. Not a tonic for drinking.”
“I am glad to hear that.” Emily gingerly shifted and rubbed her left hip. “I think I just bruised it when I landed. I’m sure it’ll be fine by tomorrow.”
“Bruised it when ye landed,” Grennove repeated while grinding some unknown substance in a mortar. She hugged the chunky stone bowl against her thick middle and grunted as she worked the pestle to crush its contents. “And where did ye fall from, m’lady?”
“I don’t remember,” Emily lied, instinctively feeling it best to be cautious.
Grennove shoved her spectacles higher up the bridge of her nose and squinted at her. “Hit yer head too, then?”
“Could be. I don’t remember that either. I woke up with Gryffe carrying me.” There. That was the truth. At least, most of it was. “He thought my hip might be out of joint, but my legs are the same length, and I haven’t lost any feeling or gone all tingly, so I think it’s just badly bruised.”
The old woman’s face puckered with a more judicious scowl. “Are ye a healer, then?”
“My father was—is. He is a healer. So is my mother. Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“Mama helps people with their minds.” Emily tapped her temple. “When they are upset or having problems they can’t seem to overcome.”
“Hmm.” Grennove studied her, ever so slightly tilting her head. Her wild, silvery brows knotted over her pale green eyes. “I see.”
The healer didn’t sound as if she saw, but Emily couldn’t help that. It was best she kept things as vague as possible.
“Shed yer trews and show me yer hip,” the matron ordered.
With no small amount of pain, Emily slipped her leggings down as far as she felt necessary for Grennove to examine her hip. Eventually, she would be forced to don the clothes of this century, but she intended to hang onto her twenty-first century garb as long as possible. She lightly ran her fingers high on her thigh, closer to the hip joint. “It hurts the worst right here.”
Grennove frowned, then gently laid her pudgy hand on the spot Emily had indicated. “No bruising yet, but with yer rich coloring, ’twill be harder to see. Pale skin like mine tells its secrets quickly. Yer richness is proud and keeps its pain hidden as long as possible.” She bowed her head and closed her eyes. “Aye, ye’ve bruised it badly, m’lady. I feel the heat of the injury. ’Twill take days for it to show and even longer for the pain to leave ye.” She opened her eyes and pinned Emily with a hard look. “How far did ye fall? Several centuries?”
Did everyone here know about time travel and accept it as an everyday occurrence? Emily stared back at the healer, determined not to blink. “About three, to be exact.”
Grennove smiled as if she had just won a bet. “Ye can trust me, m’lady. Never worry about that, ye ken?” She nodded at Emily’s bare behind. “Straighten yer trews, if ye wish. We’ll not be using the poultice. ’Twill do no good for what ails ye.” She dried her hands on the towel hanging from the thin belt buckled around her middle. “When yer maid arrives, she can help ye don a shift. Ye will be more comfortable then. Moist heat and several days in the bed will cure what ails ye.”
Emily nodded and fixed her clothes, still unsure as to just how much she could trust the little old woman with the eyes of an old soul, as her father used to say. “Thank you.”
Folding her pudgy hands in front of her, Grennove tipped a nod at the items on the table. “We shall still add a few herbs to yer tea. That will help ye as well.” She resettled her stance on the stool and nudged her chin higher. “Himself refuses to believe ye are his one. Fears to believe it, in fact.”
“His one what?” Why did everyone here talk as if they belonged in an epic fantasy movie? They were as bad as the Weavers of Seven Cairns.
Grennove frowned and wrinkled her nose to adjust her glasses. “The one, m’lady. The missing part of his soul. His fated mate.”
Fated mates. Emily refused to say the term aloud, especially when she was more like a thorn in Gryffe’s side rather than the other half of his heart. But what about that phenomenal kiss? She shook away the thought. “Maybe he refuses to believe it, because he knows it’s not true.”
“So, ye feel nothing for him, then?”
“We just met.”
“Aye, but the bond rekindles quickly as the fire from all yer past lives returns to revive the love ye shared. Ye feel no drawing to him? No faint memory of having met him before?”
