The Healer (The Witch Hunter 0.5)(6)
Slowly, I stand up again. Return my chair to its place, and then cross back to the one by the fire. I settle in, silent for a moment. Nicholas is watching me, his expression avid.
“I suppose the other healers told you that you have pneumonia,” I say. “And I imagine one or two said you have catarrh.”
Nicholas nods.
“You don’t have either. But I think you know that already.”
Again a nod.
“Coughing, chills, the gray tinge of your skin are all symptoms of pneumonia, no doubt what they based their diagnosis on. You have a fever, too, which is another symptom.”
I pause.
“But while fever can be a symptom, it’s not usually present in older patients. Also, were it pneumonia, you wouldn’t be able to think clearly. Not after this long. Your mental state would have already begun to deteriorate, and you seem fine to me.”
“Good to hear.”
“Your symptoms aren’t quite right for catarrh, either,” I continue. “Your pulse and your breath would be racing and they’re not. They’re almost too slow, in fact.”
“Go on.”
“What you’re experiencing is unnatural, which makes me think the cause is unnatural, too,” I say. “Something magical. Usually with men, when there are conflicting pulse and breathing issues, the cause is often a love spell gone wrong. But you aren’t likely to fall prey to a love spell.”
“Regrettable.”
I almost smile.
Nicholas leans forward in his chair. Looks me directly in the eye.
“What would be your diagnosis?”
I don’t answer right away. Because what I think, what my diagnosis would be, can’t possibly be true. Except there’s no other explanation.
“I think you’ve been cursed.”
Nicholas stands up abruptly and walks to the window overlooking the garden. I start a little. Have I offended him? By daring to suggest that the leader of the Reformists is cursed—could be cursed?
“Cursed.” His voice is flat, all earlier levity gone. “And what, may I ask, led you to this conclusion? I presume you’ve seen a lot of cursed patients in your four, perhaps five years of healing experience?”
I frown, feeling a sudden surge of anger. He was the one who had summoned me here. I didn’t ask to come. I try to remember that he’s old, that he’s ill. It’s not the first time someone has gotten angry at me for my diagnosis and it’s unlikely to be the last.
“It’s not my experience—or my lack of it—that led me to this,” I say, keeping my voice even. “I think you’re cursed because my father wouldn’t look at me when he talked about you. Because Fifer looks terrified, though she’s doing her best to hide it. Because you’re living in this house, too close to Upminster and too far from Harrow for comfort. I think you’re hiding yourself because you fear that whatever’s happening to you is going to get worse. Because if word got out that you were ill, cursed, possibly dying”—I swallow—“it would set off a goddamned riot inside the council, and the last thing we need is to be distracted with another fight when we’ve got an even bigger one in front of us.”
Nicholas whirls around, and for a moment I worry I’ve gone too far. That I’ve said too much and presumed too much. That he’s going to throw me and my father out of the house when we only just got here, and that it’s going to affect my father’s standing with the Reformists.
“I’ve seen seven healers,” Nicholas says. “All of whom are twice your age, with twice your experience and more than twice your deference. And you come in here, look me over for five minutes, and determine that I’m cursed? From just a handful of unnatural symptoms and what amounts to nothing more than guesswork and intuition?”
I get to my feet then, without waiting for his dismissal. Best to go before he gets even angrier, and before my father unpacks his bags. We haven’t slept in two days and I’m out of tonic, but I think that’s beyond mattering. I begin to form an apology and a farewell until I see the amusement dancing in Nicholas’s dark eyes.
“I do hope you’ll stay for a while, John.”
4
Living at Nicholas’s home is unlike mine in every way. My every need is taken care of without my having to ask. My clothes are washed, mended even. My stores of herbs have been refilled. Food is brought to me throughout the day: roast chicken and pheasant and venison and lamb, fresh fruits and vegetables, so many different breads and pies and cakes I haven’t had a chance to try them all. I haven’t eaten so well in months.
I also haven’t worked so hard in months. I’m up nearly round the clock, tending to one potion or another, things that have to be done precisely or they won’t work. It’s a near-constant juggling act to keep Nicholas steady. No sooner does he begin to respond to one potion than it begins to fail, and I’m brewing another one.
This is only half the problem. The other half is finding the source of the curse; more specifically, the person who performed it so that I can force him or her to execute a countercurse. But there are other ways, too. Ways that, as my father says, involve not magic but a sword.
We’re searching for a witch or wizard, naturally. But who? There are some who have the means but not the motive. Others who have the motive but not the means. We visited Veda, Nicholas’s seer, last week to get some answers, but she was as cryptic as seers usually are—this one even more so since she’s only five years old. Veda insists he needs to find someone named Elizabeth Grey, that she’s the only one who will be able to help us find who we’re looking for.