Page 77 of A Highland Healer Captured
“I just wanted to quickly check on Grayson, so I was rushin’ up that hill.”
“Daft habit, all that rushin’ is. But —” he sniffed, scratching his beard— “keep the lad warm, eh? He needs ye more than the revelry.”
Her mouth went dry. She nodded quickly, shifted past him, and let his muttering fade back into the stairwell.
The corridor turned dim, the torches sputtering low. Skylar nearly jumped out of her skin when a shape stirred in the shadows by the stair.
In her chamber she moved quickly, steady hands belying the storm inside her. The gown she’d worn for the festival lay tossed across the chair, still smelling faintly of smoke and cider.
She folded it roughly, stuffed it deep into her satchel along with her cloak. A second gown followed, practical wool, and the shawl Katie had thrust at her two days ago when the wind cut sharp across the solar. Skylar’s hands lingered on the weave.
She shoved it in as well.
From the small table she took her journal, the margins crowded with notes about Grayson’s pulse, his breath, every tincture tried and failed. She tore out two pages that had instructions for Katie, and laid them on the table where they’d be found. The rest she kept.
The satchel dragged at her shoulder until the strap bit skin. She nearly cursed aloud. Still, she stuffed the notes deeper—Ariellawould need every scrap of it, even if it tore her back bloody on the road.
Her fingers brushed the dirk at her belt, and she paused.
Zander’s gift. She almost set it aside, then tightened her grip and slid it into the satchel as well. “I’ll nae walk roads without teeth,” she whispered, steeling herself.
She blew out the candle and slipped into the corridor. Instead of turning toward the gate, her feet carried her to the surgery.
A scrape of boots startled her, and a knuckle rapped clumsily on her chamber door.
“Lady Skylar, is it?” Fergus’s voice came through, thick with drink and cheer. “Ye’ve near worked yerself to the bone these weeks. Come — take a dram with an old man.”
Skylar froze. “I— I?—”
“It’s Kirn — nay healer should be sober at Kirn.”
Her heart thudded so loud she thought he must hear it. “I cannae just now. I’m just on me way to the solar to check on the lad now,” she called, forcing her voice steady.
“Aye, aye.” The man chuckled, the sound trailing off into a hiccup. “Well then. Saints keep the healer. Saints keep theboy.” His boots scraped away, the sound weaving back toward laughter and pipes.
She loosed a shaky breath, rolled her shoulders back, and took the steps down to the surgery two-at-a-time.
The door creaked open, the familiar bite of vinegar and herbs enveloping her. The place smelled of her own sweat and work, of hours bent over pestle and flame. She lit a single taper and moved with purpose. Ariella would need more than Skylar’s bare hands.
She took two vials of Iceland moss infusion, corked tight. A jar of honey, thick and golden. A twist of dried angelica root — sharp on the nose, bitter on the tongue, but good for clearing lungs. She added thyme bundled in twine, the last of the willow bark, and a small cloth sack of coltsfoot.
The mortar was too heavy, but she tucked a smaller stone pestle into her satchel. She wrapped three glass bottles in a length of linen, slid them carefully beside the herbs.
On impulse she grabbed one of the clean jars of vinegar. It sloshed faintly as she stuffed it into the bottom of the bag. For wounds, for infection.
I willnae be caught unprepared.
The satchel strained at the seams. She pulled the strap across her shoulder and tested the weight. It was heavy. Almost too heavyfor the road she had ahead, but better her back than Ariella’s breath.
She blew out the taper, let the dark swallow the room, and closed the door behind her. The hall was silent here, only the faint thrum of music and laughter drifting from the yard. She walked soft, her footsteps swallowed by stone.
Her path turned not to the front door, but to the laird’s study next. She could not leave without a word. Not after what they had shared.
The study smelled of ink and leather, of maps left half-rolled and dust that had not yet had time to settle. The fire was cold. She stood a moment, listening, certain she would hear his step, his voice, the deep growl that had undone her the night before. But only silence answered.
At the desk she found paper, ink, and quill. She sat, her breath uneven, her hand steady out of habit.
She wrote with a healer’s hand — steady even when the heart shivers.
