The ride through Aldgate proper was a blur as Isabelle’s carriage bumped along the winding streets. The lane where the house stood was too narrow for them to travel down so they had to walk. The sleet mixed with snow had started anew and Hannah shivered beneath her cloak. They rushed through the near empty streets, passing only a few stragglers from the market.
Panting, they reached the front door to the house—quite a change for her from the window—then took the stairs two at a time. Hannah pushed through the door to Sol’s room first and gaped at the motionless body on the bed, her view blocked by the pair of older women surrounding him.
“How long has he been like that?” She rushed forward, not even bothering to unfasten her cloak as she knelt beside the bed. Isabelle, of all people, removed it for her, sliding it off her shoulders.
“We don’t know.” A cross-looking woman shook her head and motioned to the bed. “This is how we found him. But he couldn’t have been that way for very long.”
“What happened?” She grimaced at the inflamed skin covering his arms. Hadn’t Rebecca said he’d been poisoned?
“There was a cake downstairs,” the same woman said. “Not made here and not something any of us remember seeing in any of the deliveries we’ve received as of late. We have no idea how he got it.”
“That’s not what’s concerning,” interrupted the other woman—the one actually sitting on the bed—before Hannah could ask what exactly a cake had anything to do with this? She reached over and dotted his lips with a cloth, blocking most of Sol’s upper half. “What’s concerning is his face.”
The woman leaned back, finally giving them a clear view and—my god. In all her years, and she’d seen quite a few nightmarish acts of cruelty, between the streets and Newgate—Hannah shuddered—she’d never quite seen anything like this.
“He was beaten?” she whispered, unable to look away from his swollen eyes and lips, which looked worse next to the red splotches, probably the beginning of bruises, all over his skin. She balled her hands into fists. “Because if he was—I will—I’ll go and find whoever—”
“Oh, none of that,” Isabelle scoffed at her. “The last thing we need is to divert Rebecca or her aunt’s attention away from Sol to patch up your wounds. Besides, it’ll not help him in any way. Neither will leaving and burning London to the ground or whatever you seem set on doing right now.”
That was—she wasn’t going to—Hannah glared at the woman but relaxed her hands. “What will help?”
“We’ll get to that, but first look.” The older woman, the one who must be Rebecca’s aunt, pointed a finger at Sol’s face. “This swelling, it’s not from a beating; it’s his innards fighting something. See how his chest isn’tproperly rising; he’s struggling to breathe even though he’s asleep.”
Hannah pressed a hand over her mouth so as not to cry out.
“We—well, I—believe there was something in the cake that poisoned his body,” she continued. “I checked his airway and there’s no food lodged in it, just swelling. So much swelling that I’ve had to put some additional air inside him myself.”
“My god,” Hannah whispered. She raced around to the other side of the bed and grabbed Sol’s hot, but limp hand, holding it to her chest. “Tell me what I can do for him—anything.” Because there had to be something—some way she could help. If only she could fight it for him, give him her breath and her lungs. She clutched his fingers tighter.
The woman with the kindly face brushed off her apron. “Doc needs someone to administer the treatment…” She gestured to a bowl filled with dark liquid on the first woman’s lap.
“Coffee,” she—Doc?—offered. “Though I’m not sure it’s helping. At least it isn’t hurting him.” She demonstrated dipping the cloth before parting Sol’s lips and squeezing the rag gently, dripping down the liquid, a little at a time. “If you can handle this, there’s a combination of herbs I can make to reduce the swelling so he can breathe better and hopefully wake.” She paused. “Truly, what he needs is for his body to fight for its own survival.”
“Let me do this.” Hannah reached for the bowl. “So you can go mix whatever potion will help him in any way.” She swallowed, summoning all her strength. “Please, just let me be of use, let me help because—”
And her voice caught. Damn it. She wouldn’t cry. The world had no use for her tears. Sol most certainly didn’t.
With a nod, the woman handed her the cloth. “Just a few drops at a time,” she instructed Hannah before securing the bowl on her lap. “I’ll make sure we have the ingredients.” She tapped her chin. “Apples, nettles, bark, perhaps juice of an orange…”
“I can fetch anything you need,” Isabelle volunteered.
“And I can help you prepare the remedy,” the kindly woman said. “After all, the kitchen is my domain.” She glanced at Isabelle. “And I should feed you, especially if you’re going to run out in the snow again. Perhaps you can give me some ideas of what Miss Moses would like.”
“I’ll stay,” the grim woman said. “I’ll grab you if anything changes.”
Everyone nodded as Hannah turned back to Sol, dipping the rag in again and copying what she’d been shown. The door creaked but Hannah didn’t glance up, her focus only on him.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered as she swiped liquid off his lips because what else was there to say? Hannah’s throat stung. “I’m so sorry.” She thought back to their last conversation, guilt choking her, and brushed her fingers over his sweaty brow.
“What are you sorry for?” a rather annoyed voice snapped. “Did you give him the cake?” Hannah raised her head to find the scowling, grumpy woman still in the room, standing with her hands on her hips.
“No.” She squinted at the woman. “Do I look like I could afford a fruitcake? I can barely afford meat for Shabbos these days.” She sniffed before returning toSol. “And as for the ability to make one, well, let’s just say that was not one of the skills I was taught.” She gave the rag another dip.
“Not particularly clever. Just like him,” the woman scoffed. “It’d be just like a man to eat food without knowing its source.” She walked back around the bed, peering over Hannah’s shoulder at Sol’s motionless form.
After a moment, she gave her an awkward pat on the back. “He’ll be all right.”
“I know he will,” Hannah retorted, her voice tight. Because he had to be. Because if he wasn’t—she swallowed once more. “He’ll live and go on to do great things. And he’ll be happy, so very happy…”
