Page 53 of The Phoenix Bride
Cecilia hangs her head. Lady Eden surges forward and digs her hand into Cecilia’s arm; it is a cruel movement, clearly painful. She tugs Cecilia away from me and throws her behind her as if she is a sack of flour.
I could stop her, but to what end? There is nothing more to be done or said.
It was always going to end like this.
“It was all my doing, I assure you,” I tell Lady Eden. “Not Cecilia’s. She shouldn’t be blamed.”
She makes a disdainful sound and turns away from me. “Come,” she snaps at Cecilia, laying a hand on her shoulder. As she shoves her backward, my gaze crosses Cecilia’s. I ought to turn away, to say something, but I don’t. I am paralyzed by my own cowardice.
“I am sorry,” I say.
“Yes, you ought to be,” Lady Eden replies—but I am not speaking to her. I am apologizing to Cecilia for all that I have done. I have made the physician’s greatest error, and I have given her a cure worse than the illness. I have made myself a foxglove, in too great a dose; and now I have broken her heart.
—
Afterward, I return home. I do not sleep. I spend all night mixing medicines and labeling jars, and by the morning I am so exhausted I start making mistakes. When I finish a peppermint oil electuary for a patient with an irritable bowel, I realize that I have measured the licorice root wrong, and the entire thing must be poured out onto the garden gravel.
I go to fetch my father from his room, carrying him down the stairs so he can breakfast with me in the kitchen. As he eats his pottage, I stew a new tisane recipe, angelica and marigold for his heart. It must be sweetened, or it will be undrinkable. I search the shelves for sugar.
“Did you sleep well last night?” Father asks from his seat at the table.
I lie. “Yes.”
“You did not,” Father says.
“I did.”
“Are you eating?”
“Yes.” I spoon in the sugar.
“You look thin.”
“I am eating,” I repeat more forcefully.
Removing the pot from the flame, I sieve the liquid into a copper bowl. Our kitchen faces east, and a square of sunlight brightens the concoction to a molten gold: a temporary alchemy. When I pour it into the cup, it returns to a pale and unappetizing yellow. I pass it to him. He wrinkles his nose as he sips.
“Honey is better than sugar,” he says.
“Then I will use honey when I brew it next.”
He makes a spiteful noise, but he makes no further complaint. He knows as well as I that the physic is needed, for his chest pains have worsened recently. We have devised a rigorous routine of tisanes, decoctions, and exercises; it does something, but not enough.
Father takes another sip from the cup, grimacing. Then he inspects me with narrowed eyes. “You are upset,” he says. “That much is clear. What is it, Davi?”
“Nothing I am willing to speak of.”
He says, “Come here.”
I cross over to him. He takes my hand in his.
“I am proud of you,” he says. “You work very hard. You know that, no?”
“I do,” I reply, feeling my eyes prickle. “Thank you.”
“You must forget your troubles. Whoever thinks too much will never reach Jerusalem.” He pauses. “Certainly, something has happened to upset you so. Is it a woman?” I splutter, and he grins in triumph. “Oh? Sara? I always thought you would eventually see sense.”
Sara. I haven’t thought of her in days; the sudden guilt is crushing. I bow my head. “I already said I’d rather not speak of it.”
