Page 61 of Untempered
In the hallway, Isolde’s hand settled on my arm above my elbow. She didn’t quite pull me along, but she came damned close. “Do not touch them,” Isolde said in a tone that brooked no argument. She looked first at me, then at Thomas. “Or I’ll cut off whichever body part it is that might…might havethat.”
“How many?” I asked them, letting Isolde steer me.
“I’ve heard of seven or eight deaths,” Isolde said, glancing at Thomas. “I assumed it was a regular illness, exaggerated.”
The thought of those black eyes made something deep inside of me shy away. It was no wonder Steward Daniel didn’t want to face the reality of it. There was something terrifying about those eyes. I didn’t know what, and I hoped I never would, but it was there, very real and ancient.
“Thomas?” I asked, because he just walked in silence.
He ducked from my gaze, watching a servant bustling past, doing her best to be unobtrusive. But he said, slowly, “I haven’t been tallying the deaths.” That there might be enough toneedtallying hadn’t even occurred to me. “It was mostly in the lower quarter, though.” Something about that acknowledgment sat ill with me, but before I could question him, he said, “I heard a body was fished out of the river, and the fishermen got sick after.”
“How close were they?” Isolde asked, the words sharp. I could just about see her assessing the risks.Get close, get sick. Audrey is at risk. Keep her away.
“You need to be awfully close to pull abodyfrom ariver,” I told her, irritated. “I’m not planning on pulling their bodies from the hall. There should be no issue.”
“You need to be close to deliver soup, too,” she replied sharply. “And we have no idea howclose istooclose.”
A girl with a damp apron saw us coming and held the door, dropping down in a curtsey. I knew I was about to be forbidden from attending by Isolde, and while it made sense, I had no way to explain how much I hated the idea.
I’d been helpless for so long. I should’ve been used to it.
Knowing damned well what I was doing, I followed Isolde to gather a basket and leaned in, murmuring, “Mayhap we ought to leave a day or two earlier.”
She made a thoughtful noise, blasting the cook with a smile as the woman did a double-take at seeing me present. “Sorry to disturb you,” Isolde said. “The lady and I were just popping in quickly. Your dough is looking excellent, Bernadette.”
I hung back until a basket with small, still-warm sourdough rolls was thrust into my hands. Isolde carried the soup, bowls stacked neatly atop the tureen. The smile on her lips was genuine as she guided me back out. I hated how swiftly it faded.
I knew it wasn’t my fault she was unhappy. She’d made choices for herself, and there wasn’t a force known to the One, the Wife, or the Son that could make Isolde do a thing she didn’t want to do. But still, it twisted up my gut and made me want to make my excuses and hasten back to the quiet of my tower.
“I don’t like this,” Isolde said unnecessarily, but the words were directed at a grim-faced Thomas. “She needs to stay back.”
“Understood, and agreed, mistress,” he said stiffly. “I can take it from here, if it pleases the lady.”
It pleased my cowardly, shame-soaked heart. And mayhap that was why I couldn’t let myself consider the wisdom of my choices as I saw a servant hastening out of the hall, an empty coal cart pushed before her.
Isolde gave me a gentle nudge and jerked her chin toward the servant, frowning. I followed her gaze, not seeing why she’d drawn my attention. “What?” I asked quietly, as Thomas held the door for us.
“Unusual to see coal carts around in the afternoon, isn’t it?” she murmured. “Come now, we’ll leave the family to eat their soup while sir Chay fetches the Healer. They can find you once it’s done.”
I followed her in, and we set the food down on the table at the mother’s back.
I stood back as Isolde set out the bowls. The mother nudged the child on her knee toward the food, but he wouldn’t stand. I watched, unsure if I should offer to take the infant, but Thomas was already stepping forward, his expression one of kindness. Freed from the necessity of action, I glanced down at the toddler leaning against his mother’s legs as the jack-playing boys took soup and bread to the side. Thomas had frozen, his arms half-outstretched, bent at the middle with his shield at his feet.
The toddler’s head lolled to one side, awkwardly.
The mother’s wail made time freeze. The raw agony of her scream held a pain that made tears spring to my eyes and stole the air from my lungs. I fell back a step, the high-pitched, primal noise of grief making the world spin. She rocked aggressively, her arm scooping the limp toddler to her legs as the infant was clutched to her breast.
Isolde’s hand went again to my arm, though I hadn’t seen her get there. She pulled me back a little further, and—the Wife help me—I let her.
But only for one step.
Thomas was no longer frozen. He stripped his cloak from his shoulders and was easing the infant from the mother’s arms. I couldn’t hear his murmured reassurances, but I could see the movement of his lips and the shine of tears in his eyes.
Isolde’s hand bit into my arm as she tugged on me, and I pulled free.
Thomas glanced up at me, the babe bundled in his sturdy cloak, but it was to the oldest boy that he carried it.
The boy, barely seven winters old, dropped his spoon with a clatter. His mouth, hanging agape, snapped shut, and he took the infant with hands that seemed too small to carry such a burden. But he didn’t fumble it, just held the child close. The little one waved a hand at their brother, and I told myself I couldn’t see it properly not because the infants skin was so pale it was transparent, but because my eyes blurred with tears.
