Her world narrowed in those hours to the central ceaseless threads of a tapestry: the bitter-bright scent of herbs and magic in the air; William’s panther presence, coming and going; the ever-present awareness of her own child’s breath sleeping or waking.
And the dying king on the bed. Lily did everything she knew how to do.
By the end of that first day she also knew that it wasn’t enough.
She held yet another unsuccessful attempt at a healing tea, uselessly. What little Henry consumed had no apparent effect, and she felt ready to cry. Her head ached and her hands ached, hopeless and exhausted and wrung out. The kingdom leaned on her shoulders, and her shoulders weren’t strong enough.
William took the almost-full cup from her, hands warm against hers, and set it on the nightstand. He l
