She noted the dampness on his brow, the faint tremor in his hands, the slight pallor in his palms and cheeks.
“Yer pulse is quick,” she said. “Have ye eaten today?”
“Aye. This mornin’.”
“And have ye slept?”
A pause. “Nae much.”
“How much is nae much?”
Angus shifted uncomfortably. “Perhaps… two hours.”
Martin’s brows rose slightly, though he said nothing, allowing Edith to continue examining the cook.
She pressed gently on his side, watching his reaction, then listened to his breathing the way she had been taught.
“Ye have been workin’ through the night,” she said, meeting his gaze. “Preparin’ for the fair, I guess.”
“Three nights,” Angus admitted weakly. “The Laird wanted the kitchens ready for the feast after.”
Edith nodded slowly, the picture forming clearly now.
“Fatigue,” she declared. “Brought on by exhaustion and likely worsened by skipped meals. There may be a touch of fever as well, though nothing serious.”
“And the remedy?” Martin asked, his voice devoid of the slightest hint as to whether she was right or wrong.
Edith considered for a moment.
“Rest,” she replied, straightening. “At least a full day, away from the kitchens entirely. Broth and plenty of water. Elderflower tea for the fever so it wouldnae worsen. And feverfew, if his head begins to ache.”
Martin’s expression brightened.
“Good,” he said. “Very good.” He turned to Angus. “Ye heard her. A full day’s rest, beginning now.”
“But the preparations for?—”
“Will continue without ye,” Martin interrupted firmly. “As will yer employment, should ye collapse mid-service and embarrass the entire kitchen.”
Angus grumbled something under his breath but did not argue further, allowing Martin to help him to the door, presumably to deliver him to the infirmary as promised.
Edith remained where she stood, her chest filled with something warm and unfamiliar—pride, she realized. Genuine, unguarded pride in something she had done entirely on her own.
She had diagnosed a patient. Properly. With her own hands and her own careful attention, exactly as Martin had taught her.
When he returned a few minutes later, his expression carried the same quiet satisfaction it had before.
“Ye did well,” he said simply.
“Truly?”
“Truly.” He studied her for a long moment. “Ye have a gift, Edith. A genuine one.” He paused, something almost wistful crossing his face. “Ye would make a fine healer… if ye werenae to become a lady.”
The words settled over her slowly, then all at once.
She had wanted this for so long, longer than she had wanted almost anything else in her life. Months of stolen lessons, borrowed books, quiet afternoons sketching herbs in an abandoned library because there had been nowhere else for her ambition to live.
And now Martin had said the words plainly.
