She worked steadily through the day, as the sun burned lower in the sky above them, as shadows waxed and waned outside the palace gates. Pounding and straining herbs until her hands ached, holding the king’s weakening body, sponging him with cold cloths, trying to bring down the fever. Whispering all the charms she knew, little spells and cantrips, pouring herself into the words, trying to tell them, heal. Make right what is wrong here.
William was there for most of the day, though not all of it. He flickered in and out of the room, a noiseless shadow with his own purposes; she never noticed his movements until she looked up to see him gone, or to see him there, holding water to his half-brother’s lips, taking mortar and pestle from her hands when she grew too tired, or merely standing by
