The Healer Read Online Free PDF Page B

head into his hands.
    “Are you all right?” I walk to him, touch my hand to his forehead, hold his wrist. His skin is cool but his pulse is racing.
    “I will be, now. Please, John. Go. Tend to her. She needs your help more than I do at the moment.”
    I hesitate. Nicholas is my primary concern right now, but if this girl truly is the only one who can help him—which I doubt even more after seeing her—then she should be my primary concern as well.

6
    Upstairs, it’s chaos.
    The girl is lying facedown on the bed. Head tilted to the side, her filthy dress unbuttoned halfway down her back. Fifer stands beside her, grasping the sleeve of her dress and trying to yank it down, cursing like mad.
    There’s a bathtub beside the fireplace, already full. I touch my finger to the water. It’s the perfect temperature, as I knew it would be. Hastings has added some sort of perfume to the water, jasmine by the scent of it. A nice touch, but utterly unnecessary. I don’t care about this girl being clean right now so much as cool.
    Father hovers by the door, doing nothing.
    “Why are you just standing there?” I say. “You could help Fifer, you know.”
    “Undress a girl?” Father looks shocked. “Without a lady present?”
    “Excuse me,” Fifer snaps.
    “It’s hardly the time for decorum,” I tell him. “Where is Hastings?”
    “Preparing your alembic.”
    “Where is George, then?”
    “Waiting for you in your room, as you ordered.”
    I let out a stream of obscenities. “Why didn’t you call him in? He won’t care about undressing a girl. I don’t have time for this.”
    “I’ll get him now,” Father says.
    “Never mind.” I push past him to the bed. “I’ll do it.”
    “John, I’m not sure…” Father begins.
    I shoot him a look and he quiets.
    I step up to the bed. Immediately, I see Fifer’s trouble. She’s trying to undress this poor girl without touching her. She’s got her sleeve pulled over one hand so she doesn’t have to make direct contact with the girl’s skin, the other hand pinching her nose shut.
    “It might help if you used two hands.” I reach for the girl, quickly unbuttoning the back of her dress. Then I roll her over to her back as gently as I can.
    “I can’t stand it. She smells awful, John.”
    I grit my teeth. “Grab that blanket and drape it over her top half.”
    This, at least, Fifer can manage.
    I slip one sleeve from the girl’s shoulder, then the other, a bit difficult to do with the blanket covering her. I ease her dress down to her waist, then reach for the hem of the skirt.
    “I’m going to take off the whole thing. Fifer, hold the blanket tight while I pull.”
    After a bit of tugging, I slide the dress off, then turn back to the girl. She hasn’t moved, hasn’t stirred. She lies across the mattress, her mouth slightly open, head tilted to the side. Under the blanket like that she could be half asleep instead of half dead. I can just make out a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
    I feel a twinge of something; pity, I suppose. I reach down, pick her up, and carry her to the bath. She can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds. I slide her into the water, averting my gaze as the blanket floats up and away from her naked body.
    I turn to Fifer. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Less. Fourteen. Get her out in ten and have her dressed by the time I come back. Father, you can wait in the hallway.” Before either of them can argue, I’m out the door, slamming it behind me.
    Inside my room, George hovers over the array of steaming glass flasks, looking from one to the other as if he’s afraid they might explode.
    “Wish I could help, mate, but I’m not sure what to do.…”
    “Grab that.” I motion to an empty goblet lying on the table. Then I take the charcoal—helpfully laid out by Hastings—and measure two grains of it into a clean flask. Using a pair of tongs, I lift the second flask with the baptisia root from the stand and