“I will continue, but first you must drink this,” St. Silas said, taking the vial of sleeping draught Mrs. Van had concocted earlier. With rare trust, the child did as he was told, choking as the bitter liquid slipped down his throat.
For as long as Leena lived, she would never forget St. Silas’s deep intonation threading through the room as he wove a story of a girl named Kit who had grown up in the crags of the north, secretly raising wolves despite her clan’s objection to such creatures. Leena had never heard this story before, but it had the cadence of a folk tale—something that had been passed down for generations. Shewondered if St. Silas had learned it while sitting on the knee of his own mother or father. Leena caught only fragments of the plot as she focused on her task, but his voice acted as a metronome to Leena’s and Mrs. Van’s work—a rhythm that kept the wild beats of her own pulse steady.
It was a softness that was entirely at odds with St. Silas’s unyielding nature.
This entire night had been a revelation for Leena—an excavation of St. Silas, as if she’d seen him for the first time unburied and alive.
Leena could not help but throw quick, searching glances at St. Silas, who did not return her gaze. He had begun to clean the gash on the boy’s scalp with alcohol and gauze. The boy attempted to stay still as he listened, but tears made dirt tracks down his face.
“You are very brave,” St. Silas interrupted his story to inform the boy, his large hands working deftly to tie the bandage after Mrs. Van had applied her salve.
Through his tears, the child stared up at St. Silas, and the look he gave him made Leena bite her bottom lip painfully.
St. Silas paused as well, then gave the child a smile that was entirely disarming. “Certainly braver than I am, for I have been known to turn my crumpets at the sight of blood.”
The turn of phrase made the child’s smile widen, before wincing in pain.
“Leena—the Deathgrips,” Mrs. Van instructed in a hurried whisper.
Deathgrips.
A Guide to Botanyswam before Leena’s eyes as she rushed for the glass canisters in the larder, grabbing a fistful of violet flowers before reaching for the pestle. She crushed them into a fine paste, all the while remembering the passages she’d memorized as a child:Deathgrip has anti-inflammatory properties and can also be used to draw out infection in small quantities.
It was not lost on her that on the night St. Silas had chosen to tell a story about a girl saving wolves, Leena was preparing a pastethat was widely known to be lethal to the animal; its other name wasDeath Comes to Wolves.
St. Silas resumed his story as Leena worked on the paste and, once that was finished, she began cutting long strips of bandage before Mrs. Van could ask her. She and the housekeeper had fallen into a natural rhythm while nursing Rami, and Leena had learned enough to predict Mrs. Van’s wants.
When the shoulder needed to be set, it was St. Silas who held the boy down. He interrupted the story again only momentarily to tell the child what needed to be done beforehand. The boy gave a shaky nod. The sleeping draught had begun to take effect, his eyelids heavy.
“Good lad,” St. Silas murmured, nodding to Mrs. Van to begin. Then he continued the tale, his voice holding the same calmative depths that set all their disquieted hearts at ease. “Kit had turned to her father, the chieftain, ready to face her punishment for defying his orders and saving the gray wolf. Her mother sobbed as her father told her that she would be forced to marry an outsider and banished from the clan…”
The boy screamed as the bone snapped back into place.
Leena worked around Mrs. Van, wrapping gauze around the boy’s shoulder and arm as nimbly as she could to stabilize the joint. Not long after that, the boy fell into a dreamless state, and St. Silas lapsed into silence as he released his hold on the boy, the story of Kit and her beloved wolves still echoing in the room.
As Leena tied the final knot, her glare returned to the phantom in unrestrained triumph.
Mr. Marlow’s ghost appeared disturbed, his hands clawing at his sides.
“Yes,” Leena snarled. “He will survive.”
It was Mrs. Van who answered, not the ghost. “I believe so. He is young; his body will heal.” She looked up at St. Silas. “We will need to send him to a convalescent home while he recovers.”
St. Silas nodded. “In the morning. Let him rest here until then.”
Leena’s mind swam with the only picture she’d seen of a convalescent home, drawn in a newspaper once. Such homes were often located by the sea for the healthy treatment of lungs and joints. They were wildly expensive, and usually only accessible to the wealthy.
The ghost did not seem pleased by this news. In fact, waves of fury tore through him until his entire outline began to dim, turning fainter before he disappeared into nothing.
Leena wanted to celebrate the news of this ghost’s vanishing with St. Silas and Mrs. Van, but she remembered abruptly that he had been visible only to her.
Her eyes flashed to St. Silas in sudden understanding, the words she had said returning to her with force: Youdid this to him!
The look he’d given her.
St. Silas had thought that she’d accused him.
Leena could notbring herself to leave the steady warmth of the kitchen, even after the child had been transported to a more comfortable chamber, to be further watched over by Mrs. Van.
