“Good answer.” Isla handed her a bundle of short-stemmed flowers. “Strip the petals. Ye’ll ken them as chamomile, I presume?”
Elsie smiled, pushing up her sleeves as she approached the work bench that took up the majority of the small room. She stood by Isla’s side, picking up the bundle of chamomile in her hands and brushing her fingers over the fragrant buds.
“Of course.”
“Good, then let us see what ye can dae.”
Soon Elsie fell into a rhythm—grinding dried mint for fever salve, chopping licorice root, sorting nettle leaves. Isla taught her which plants soothed toothaches, which eased childbirth, which cooled fevers or steadied breath.
“Ye’re quicker than I expected,” Isla said. “Faster than most apprentices I’ve had.”
Elsie glowed under the praise. Though she didn’t think she had done anything of note, hearing Isla praise her like that pleased her in a way she could hardly explain. There was satisfaction to be had in a job well done, and Elsie was prepared to do plenty of it.
When Isla left to deliver a jar of poultice to a mother in the lower crofts, she paused in the doorway.
“Keep the fire low. Stir the paste every couple o’ minutes. An’ if anyone comes with a complaint, see what ye can dae. I trust yer judgment.”
“You… trust me?” Elsie nearly squeaked.
Isla chuckled. “If I didnae, I’d nae leave me croft an’ all me herbs alone with ye.”
Elsie beamed as Isla left. Trust—it warmed her more than the fire. She stirred the paste Isla had taught her to prepare, the scent rising sweet and sharp, and as she did, she hummed under her breath, pleased and proud.
Then the door swung open.
Torrin, the young, nervous soldier who often kept the horses, stood awkwardly at the threshold. He shifted from foot to foot, his ears red, the blush creeping slowly all over his face.
“Forgive me, me lady. I… came fer Isla.”
“She stepped out,” Elsie said gently. “But she left me in charge. If you’re hurt, I may be able to help.”
He jolted as if struck, the color draining from his face. “N-nay! I mean, aye. I mean… it’s complicated.”
Elsie set down the mortar, her eyes narrowing as she took in Torrin’s flushed face, the timid way in which he held himself, his arms wrapping tightly around himself like an armor.
Elsie approached him gently, the way one might approach a skittish colt. “Whatever it is, Isla left me in charge. But if you’re uncomfortable, I can?—”
“I cannae tell ye!” he burst out. Then, upon realizing he had quite literally yelled at the laird’s wife, he slapped a hand over his mouth in horror. “Forgive me, I just… it’s… a man’s problem.”
Elsie raised a brow, now as curious as she was willing to help. “Men have all sorts of problems. Most of them unnecessary.”
Torrin turned scarlet from ears to collar. He shifted his weight from foot to foot uncomfortably, huffing and puffing as if he could hardly contain himself.
“Nay, it’s… a very manly problem.”
Elsie crossed her arms patiently, wondering what the best way to get him to talk would be. “Torrin, you’re limping. Are you injured or simply dramatic?”
He sputtered. “I—no. Well… both?”
“Torrin.”
He squeezed his eyes shut as if preparing to leap off a cliff, then took a deep, trembling breath.
“It hurts when I pee!”
The words spilled out in a single, tortured rush, then hung in the air with a weight and embarrassment so great the herbs themselves seemed to wilt in sympathy. Elsie pressed her lips together, fighting the smile threatening to escape.
“I see. How long has it been hurting?”
