Page 17 of The Phoenix Bride
She says, “It sounds wonderful.”
“It is.”
“I’d like to see it,” she says. “I’d like to see something beautiful again.”
I clear my throat, gesturing to the bottles on the table. “I have three decoctions for you.”
“Decoctions?”
“Mild medicines, made by boiling herbs in water. The first is mint and centaury; one swallow to be taken before meals, one after, to settle your stomach. The second is ginger and gentian, two swallows in the mornings. That should, I hope, provoke your appetite.”
“And the third?”
“Epithymum. One swallow. It is best mixed with ale.”
“What is that?” she asks.
“It’s a parasitic plant,” I reply with inordinate pride; it is difficult to grow, and I was glad to find it in my garden that morning. “It grows on thyme, and it soothes melancholy.”
“Melancholy,” she repeats, face twisting into a scowl. “I am not mad, Master Mendes.”
“I didn’t imply you were. Grief causes melancholy. Would you deny this?”
“I…I suppose that I wouldn’t.”
I ask, “And would you deny that you are grieving? You told me yesterday that you were.”
“I did,” she says. “But to call memelancholy—that is too much, surely.”
“Even so, there is little harm in taking the decoction.”
She stands up and leans forward, looming over me, her hands planted on the table.
“Herbs can’t cure loss,” she says. “They can’t remove memory.”
“I never claimed they could.”
“Suppose I refused to take this epi—ep—plant. Would you force it upon me?”
I feel another moment of resentment toward Lady Eden. She has taken advantage of her sister’s weakness, and her actions have made my work immeasurably harder. “Of course not,” I say.
“Then I won’t take it,” Cecilia tells me.
“Very well.”
My agreement deflates her, and her shoulders drop. I wish Icould convince her otherwise, but I know a lost cause when I seeit.
Still, it’s a great shame that she won’t take the epithymum. I suspect it would help her, as it is clear she is suffering attacks of panic, and that is what leads her to vomit. This isn’t surprising, as many issues of the gut are the result of the mind. We think of the heart as the house of emotion, but that burden is shared with the stomach—and, indeed, every other part of ourselves. We could never feel something as powerful as love or hatred without the aid of every organ available to us.
Cecilia blanches, and she sways in place. Alarmed, I step forward, offering her my arm. She takes it instinctively, then frowns, as if chiding herself for it. But she allows me to lead her out of the courtyard and back to her rooms. As much as I’d like to keep her in the fresh air longer, it is clear she needs to eat.
Once we reach her chambers, she slides into the bed. I pour her a glass of water.
“Is there something else wrong with me?” she asks. “Is it something more than grief?”
“It needn’t be more than grief.”
“What do you mean?”
