“Lady Guinevere?”the doctor sneered.“That woman in London?Has a gentleman like you truly been taken in by that potion nonsense?”
Sybil’s looks could kill, and Apollo was glad not to be on the receiving end of the one she slashed at the good doctor.
Needle pierced skin again and muscle spasmed.
“Shh.”He stroked his thumb across her cheek.“I know it hurts.Where was I?Ah yes.Plants I wish the good doctor had in abundance other thanthyme.”
“Thyme has important properties,” the doctor grumbled, pulling the thread tight then diving back in.
“Now which gentleman’s been taken in by potion nonsense?”But Apollo didn’t speak to the doctor.He spoke entirely for Sybil, trying to eke a smile out of her.No smile.“Almost done, Doctor?”
“Almost.”He began to hum a rather chipper tune.
“After I take you back to the inn, I’ll search out a potion mistress and find something for you.Several somethings.For sleep, for pain, for healing.”
“Nonsense, nonsense, nonsense,” the doctor sang.Then he stood upright and stretched his back.“There.All done.Don’t walk on it for a week.Keep it clean.Try not to let it get infected.”
Apollo crossed his arms over his chest.“That’s all you have to say?”
The doctor chuckled.“You’re welcome to take some thyme.”
Apollo scooped up Sybil, who was paler than ever, her forehead beaded with sweat, strands of golden hair curled and plastered to her temples.He took some thyme, too, with a final parting glare at the doctor, who blocked the door.
“Money.”He held out a palm.
“As you see, we left in a rush.I have none on me.We’re at the Blue Anvil Inn.You can send a bill there.”
“I will.”He stepped aside.
Apollo traveled slower than before, holding Sybil as if she were a stack of fragile plates he was destined to drop.
“Does it hurt?”he asked.
“Oh, yes.Quite.”She rested her head on his shoulder.
And he wanted to rest his lips on the top of her head.
Instead, he said, “We should get drunk.”
“I agree.”
At the inn, he set her on her bed.It wasn’t hard to find a potion mistress or a few bottles of wine if one knew where to look.And he always did.For that sort of thing at least.When he returned to her, she was sitting up right with a notebook on her lap.
“What the hell are you doing?”He dropped his parcels on a table and strode to the bed to push her back down, cover her up, inspect her foot.“Your bag’s all the way across the room.”
“Don’t worry.I didn’t put the foot on the ground.I hopped.Hurt like hell, but I made it.”
“Doesn’t look like you popped any of the stitches.”
She grinned.
He opened the wine and a small potion bottle.He sniffed it.Smelled fresh.Kneeling by the bed, he said, “It might sting, but it will keep the wound clean.”He poured it right onto her foot.
She hissed and clutched the notebook to her breast.Her breathing turned ragged.
“There.Done for now.But we should put more on in the morning.At least twice a day.”
“How do you know so much about plants?Thyme and aloe and… and valerie did you call it?”
