Page 137 of When the Sky Breaks

“It’s got to be some kind of infection,” Ansel muttered under his breath as Sorcha brought up more blood-streaked bile into the chamber pot.

“The Ironmoot who came about the troll infestation seemed ill last week,” Glen put in.

“Creosote should still be breaking the fever though,” Ansel replied.

I didn’t speak, just tucked Sorcha closer. Even in the desert, with relapsing fever, I’d never seen her this sick and still conscious. Terror wrapped around my chest like a vise, making it hard to breathe.

“You’ll be fine,” I whispered into her hair. “You’ll both be okay.”

Sorcha nodded, then whimpered. It felt like hours before Cavan finally returned from the village, but the sky remained dark, dawn still far off.

“Midwife is delivering twins on the other side of the island,” Cavan said as he arrived. “Can’t be here for six hours at least. She says it might be longer.”

I could feel the anger rolling off Ansel in waves. I should be angry. Should feel injustice. Urgency. Something. But my mind was far too fixated on the feel of Sorcha’s breath against my collarbone, her clammy skin under my hands, tracking each and every sign of life in her body.

“I can help.” Irene’s voice jolted me back to attention.

“Oh,” Cavan added, sheepish now, “and Ma said she can help. Maybe. She was real cross but she insisted on coming.”

“You have healing magic we don’t know about?” Ansel demanded.

Irene shook her head. “No, but Finn spent years in the Inner Court, and I’ve still got tinctures he brought home. Magic ones. Made by real Inner Court healers. I think there’s a few that might help.”

“Prove it,” Ansel snarled.

“Healing the girl would prove it,” Irene snapped in reply.

“The girl is your sovereign, and you are not touching her until you’ve shown us what these bloody tinctures can actually do,” Ansel replied sharply.

“I don’t see anyone else in need of healing,” Irene said, “and if we dawdle much more the girl will die.”

I kissed Sorcha’s sweat-soaked forehead, and I saw Da’s hand drift up to grab on to her wrist.

“Nobody’s dying tonight,” he snapped.

And then a gunshot split the still night air.

Cavan yelped. I clutched Sorcha closer even as she broke out of her fevered haze enough to startle.

“What in all the saints was that?” Da exclaimed.

Blood poured from a wound on Ansel’s foot, smoking pistol still in his right hand. Irene’s face drained immediately of color.

“Fix me,” Ansel ground out through his teeth. “Then we’ll talk about letting you touch her.”

Irene nodded, produced a vial of transparent, gold-toned liquid from her apron pocket, and knelt in front of Ansel, careful to avoid the blood pooling on the cobbled patio. She pulled off Ansel’s boot and surveyed the damage, mouth twisting in a grimace at the sight.

“I think something’s broken. And healing magic’s no good on bones,” she said, “but this should close the flesh wound. Will that be sufficient evidence?”

“We’ll see,” I replied bluntly.

“Why are you offering help?” Sorcha asked, barely holding on to alertness.

“You’re my sovereign,” Irene replied. “As Mr. O’Faelen has repeatedly pointed out.”

“Finish your work,” Ansel snapped.

“So fussy.” Irene clucked. “You’d think I shot you.”