“Salt only. And more water. Quickly.”
Beth obeyed at once.
Lilliana rolled the mother gently onto her side in case another seizure came. Her fingers pressed against the woman’s throat, counting the pulse.
Fast. Uneven.
The villagers had been ill, yes, but not like this.
This was not the stream alone.
“Conall,” she asked steadily, “did anyone come by today?”
The boy blinked. “Aye, a woman I daenae ken. She asked about the well. Said she was passing through.”
Lilliana’s stomach dropped. “What did she do?”
“She knelt beside it,” he said, confused. “Said a prayer, I think.”
A prayer. Or a handful of something.
Lilliana’s mind sharpened.
“We must flush it out of her,” she muttered. “Whatever remains.”
The convulsions had expelled some of it, but not enough.
“Beth,” she called again, “bring me a bowl. And fetch the charcoal from the hearth. The blackest pieces.”
Beth frowned at her. “Charcoal?”
“Yes. Crushed. Quickly.”
The girl obeyed without question.
Charcoal.
It was crude. Unproven in the scientific sense. But country healers had long used it to draw impurities from the body. It absorbed. It bound. It might not cure, but it might blunt the poison’s hold.
Beth returned with a small wooden bowl and several darkened chunks from the edge of the fire.
Lilliana crushed them between two stones, grinding until they became a fine black powder. She added a little of the salted water to make a thin slurry.
“Help me sit her up,” she instructed.
The three of them lifted the woman carefully. Her head lolled to the side.
Lilliana held the bowl to her lips. “You must swallow,” she urged gently. “Just a little.”
The woman coughed weakly but managed to take several mouthfuls before sagging again.
“Good,” Lilliana murmured. “Good.”
They eased her back down.
Minutes passed.
The fire crackled. Beth hovered. Conall wrung his hands. Then, slowly, the woman’s breathing began to steady.
