“Certainly. Arthur,” Charlotte said, and he snapped to attention, eager to show Cormac Young how helpful he was. “The syrup in the blue bottles.”
Arthur rabbited away. Sasha had trailed into the kitchen with a frown.
“Why aren’t you in bed, duck?” Arthur asked absently, digging through the cabinet in which Charlotte kept her most-used herbs and medicines.
“You said you’d bring me milk.”
“Half a moment. Mr. Young is here for— Aha,” Arthur said under his breath, finding several small blue bottles. “I’ll be there once we’ve finished with him, I promise.”
He nudged her back toward the bedroom and dashed away with a bottle in hand.
“...not the sickness, thank the Lord,” Cormac was saying. “But I’ll feel easier when Rosie stops coughing. She’s had such fits as makes it hard for her to breathe.”
Charlotte’s jaw clenched at the sidewise mention of wood sickness, but since Rosie Young didn’t have it, all she said was, “What about when she’s not coughing? Has she any shortness of breath?”
Cormac shook his head. “Goes on so cheery between coughing fits you’d not think her sick at all if she weren’t so pale, now the fever’s broke.”
“I hope she’ll recover quickly,” Arthur said desperately, handing the blue bottle to him. “Here.”
A brief glance as Cormac took the bottle, a quiet “thanks” that made Arthur’s heart thump painfully. Then, to his disappointment, Cormac jammed his cap on and turned back to Charlotte. “We’re sure grateful, Mrs. Prentice. I’ll bring a fish by this week, or probably a few if they’re so small as the ones been coming in lately.”
“There’s no need for that.”
Cormac hesitated. “You done so much for Rosie already—”
“Which you’ve already paid me for. She’ll recover sooner if she eats well.”
Like their father, Charlotte often failed to charge the villagers for her services as a healer. Despite the cannery’s promises of work and riches, Seacliff was poorer now than it had been in their youth. The village had been dying a slow death for years.
Perhaps things did change in Seacliff, Arthur thought, but only ever for the worse.
After a long moment, Cormac tipped his cap, slipped the medicine into his pocket, and trudged back downhill, where darkness swallowed him up. Arthur let out a soft sigh.
Charlotte squeezed his arm. She returned to the kitchen, the sink, and the remaining dishes.
“I really can do that,” Arthur said.
“I know,” she replied, but she didn’t stop. Arthur hesitated but poured Sasha’s milk and returned to the tiny back-corner bedroom without another word.
A screen was crammed between the children’s beds. Since turning twelve that spring, Jonas had become shy about their body and didn’t want anyone to see them dressing or undressing. Besides the privacy it afforded, the screen blocked (more or less) the constant opening and shutting of the door as Sasha attempted to avoid bedtime.
Unfortunately, it did little to muffle the sounds of her fidgeting. Snuggled into their bedclothes with the cat, Jonas pulled a pillow over their head with a huff.
Sasha bounced on the edge of her bed. Forgetting Cormac Young, Arthur bit back a smile. Sasha was his darling; his sister often chided him for laughing at Sasha’s behavior when he should have been telling her off. He tried to look stern as he handed his niece the glass of milk, butsternwas not part of Arthur’s natural makeup.
“Don’t bounce on the bed,” he said half-heartedly, because he knew Charlotte would want him to.
“It’s fun.”
“I know, but Jonas is trying to sleep.”
“Yeah,” Jonas muttered from the other side of the screen. “Trying.”
“That’s because Jonas is boring.” So saying, Sasha stopped bouncing, downed the milk, and held out her empty glass. “Done.”
She started getting up, but Arthur pushed her gently back into bed. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I have to wash my face again.” Sasha turned her face upward to show him the full glory of her milk mustache. “See?”
