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“For what?”

“That is foul.”

“It is better outside your lungs.”

I inspect it, then fold the cloth away. There is no blood. Another good sign.

“You need two days away from the cold passages,” I say. “Three, if the fever remains.”

“I cannot take three days.”

“You cannot scrub floors if you cannot breathe.”

“The housekeeper will replace me.”

“Then you will assist here until you recover.”

Her cup stops near her mouth. “You would keep me in the solarium?”

“I need help cleaning trays, sorting seeds, preparing labels, and carrying water. None of those tasks require you to enter the frozen passages.”

“They will say you favor me.”

“I am treating you.”

“In this household, that may be the same thing.”

The bitterness in her voice is more exhausted than angry.

I look around the solarium. These walls have protected dead soil for a century while living servants worked themselves ill a corridor away.

“Then let them say it,” I answer.

Footsteps approach outside.

Briar sets down the cup so abruptly that liquid spills over its rim. Fear transforms her. Her spine straightens. Her hands reach for work that is not there.

The door opens, and an older human servant enters carrying a bucket of ash for the planting beds. He stops when he sees Briar beneath the cloth.

“My lady,” he says.

“Briar is helping me prepare remedies.”

His gaze moves to her flushed face.

“Yes, my lady.”

No accusation enters his voice. Only understanding.

He places the bucket near the door. Before leaving, he touches two fingers to his chest in the human gesture of thanks used in Lowtown.

Briar watches him go.

“He knows,” she says.

“He knows you are ill.”

“He knows you are treating me.”