Page 138 of When the Sky Breaks

The tincture closed the visible wound in Ansel’s foot within mere minutes.

I still glared, unconvinced. But Sorcha was shaking from fever sweat. She’d brought up blood again while the tincture worked. Our options were running perilously thin.

“We’re not gonna get more reassurance than that,” Da muttered as the flesh knit together. “So what do you say, lass? You up for it?”

“How fast can Kadish get here?” Sorcha whispered into my chest.

“Couple days, best case,” Da replied. “He left here three days back. Which means if he’s in Edinburgh? One day for the message to reach and another for him to travel. If he’s farther, it could be a week or more. You never know with Himmelbaum.”

“And how fast could this hurt the baby?” Sorcha asked.

“Sooner than that,” I admitted.

“So we try?” She looked up at me, green eyes wide, glazed, trusting.

“We try,” I agreed. I brushed hair back from her forehead and pressed a kiss between her brows. “I won’t let go of you for a second.”

“So I passed your asinine little test?” Irene asked.

Sorcha nodded.

“Get to it,” Da instructed.

Irene dug in her pockets once more, finally producing three vials of liquid—one was a sickly green, another vibrant pink, and the third clear with tiny particulate droplets of some kind of crystal suspended within.

“And these are?” I asked as Irene uncapped the first and held it out for Sorcha to drink.

“Medicine,” Irene said. “Elven make. From the Inner Court. I’ve got all the notes back buried somewhere at home, but I checked and this is it for antipyretic and to settle her guts. Swear on my husband’s grave, these will help.”

“I don’t think we have any other options, lass,” Da said gently.

“Doesn’t mean I trust this one,” Sorcha muttered.

“You’re positive that healed your foot up right?” I asked Ansel.

Ansel just ran a hand over the newly healed skin, wincing as it jostled the still-broken bones beneath.

“Like I said back in Texas, lad,” Ansel said, “unless you’ve got secret healing magic I don’t know about . . .”

“Take it,” I said, taking the vial from Irene and holding it to Sorcha’s lips.

And so Sorcha drank, one after the other, wincing at the taste.

For a moment, it seemed almost to work. She settled, some of the pained rigidity creeping out of her body, replaced with the laxity of fatigue and dehydration. The band of iron-tight tension in my chest relaxed, and I could take a deep breath.

Then Sorcha stiffened again, tugged on my sleeve. “Neal, I don’t feel right.”

“Stomach again?” I asked softly.

“That typical?” Da demanded of no one in particular.

“Medicine has side effects.” Irene shrugged.

“No, Neal.” Sorcha was getting frantic now, pushing against me, trying to sit up. “Something’s wrong. Tight in my chest. Not my stomach. Not the fever. Something’s wrong!”

And then she screamed through gritted teeth, a desperate, strangled sound. I caught her wrists in one hand and looped another arm behind her back as she scrambled to get up, get away.

But suddenly I felt a rush of something wet and hot in my lap, and Sorcha froze.