Fyskar

Chapter 5

Late into his second month in Fearchar and Seonaid house, a woman knocked at the door, to Eoin's surprise. He flinched in distaste, recognizing her. She was older but still prim and smug. Seonaid turned tail and closed the door to the bedroom before the woman could see her.

The lady came seeking medical advice for her oldest son, who had developed a horrid cough. Eoin listened to her as calmly as possible, then methodically packed up his box and took up a walking stick from the wall. The woman stalked out the door quickly, waiting for Eoin to follow her. Fearchar pulled him aside. "That's Grannd's wife, Eoin."

Eoin nodded, cautious. Lady Daleroch had not aged well. The skin across her nose had tightened, and liver spots crawled across crepe hands.

"Ah am comin' with ye." Fearchar grabbed up his waxed canvas cloak.

Lady Daleroch turned back, waiting on the men. "Good! I need a translator fur this." She motioned the doctor up and down. "Cannae ken why's I'm here. Angus should'a been capable, but na' he and Lizbet both were useless." The gaunt woman wrung her boney fingers in her dress pleats.

They followed her to the Daleroch estate. The chill wind pressed Fearchar to be in out of the cutting cold, but he stalled as Eoin hesitated at the doorstep. The woman led them into the house to a stifling back room. Eoin's mannerisms turned stiff and exact as he opened the windows to let in a sharp breeze and light.

In the middle of the room, the man lying in bed had lost most of his colour. He coughed wetly, on the verge of suffocating. His face beaded with sweat, his damp covers thrown to the hewn floor. Grannd's son, Conner, toed the line between the living and the dead. Eoin tested the heir's heartbeat, leather-gloved fingers rough as he checked for lesions and rashes to confirm a diagnosis.

"Will he be a'right?" Conner's mother twisted a worn handkerchief she had frayed. Eoin noted the action. Not all was well in the house.

He set his box down on the small desk in the room. Pulling a pair of vials from a drawer along with a mortar and pestle, he gently fingered the worn hazel top. Leaving the small inlaid carvings, he opened several drawers and motioned his hired hand to find boiling water. Lady Daleroch fetched a kettle full at Fearchar's prompting.

Fearchar watched the man practically vibrate as he stood in the packed little room, his hands hovering over the desk. Fearchar could not see the seething rage Eoin suffered difficulty controlling behind the mask. It was going to be all he could do to keep his cover now and help Conner get better. It was an infection of the lungs. Not easily treatable by simple country medicine. This would be using up some of his best materials, but it would be worth it in the end.

Conner's mother returned, and Eoin showed her how to mix the tincture. When it was cool enough to not burn, he helped her give the man his first dose. The invalid sputtered and murmured, set under a delirium. He settled, though, and dozed off. His colour came back to his cheeks.

Eoin handed the woman seven days' worth of the little packets. He instructed her to give the man the dosages with every meal and to keep the young man drinking plenty of liquids but no ale. The medicine would not combine well and would cause a swift death. Lady Daleroch promised to keep the flask away from him. She cried, happy to have a solution to her son's suffering. Indifferent to her relief, Eoin packed up his box, nodded to her, and left quickly. "How much do I owe him?" Lady Daleroch's trill chirp followed him out the door. He didn't care what Fearchar answered. There was no amount of money they could possibly pay him that would relieve his feelings toward them.

He had nearly made it to the burned-out, decrepit roundhouse when he heard Fearchar running up behind him. "Told 'er to save off pay'n 'til Conner's be'er,. That 'right with ye, doc?" Fearchar drew up next to him, panting. Eoin waved off the question, moved away from the roundhouse, and headed back for Fearchar's hovel.