The Prince of Midnight by Laura Kinsale Read Free Book Online Page A

and paper to write them down."
She didn't wait for him to do so, but took a trembling breath and started
immediately onto her next point. "In Bedfordshire, they've had some success with
washing the walls of fever residences in quicklime. Is there any available?"
    S.T. shook his head, watching her closely. He doubted she ought to be
exerting herself to this much talking.
    Her fingers moved restlessly. "You'll have to make some. I can tell you how.
But the herbs should be gathered first; you can brew several necessary
decoctions for dosing yourself." She closed her eyes, paused a moment, and then
opened them. "You should continue the cold baths. And I'll want to know
instantly if you develop the headache or any other of the signs. I'll write them
down for you. As for the quicklime, you must gather—"
    By the time S.T. had been regaled with the long list of prophylactic measures
he was to take for his continuing health, he couldn't decide if Miss Leigh
Strachan was truly concerned for him or simply a born drill sergeant. She had
that methodical style of categorizing things in descending, ascending, and
elliptical orders of priority that he associated with middle-aged spinsters and
tax clerks. He began edging out of the room, finally claiming a pot of garlic
was on the boil to hasten his departure, and escaped down the spiral stairs.
    He got to the armory, tried to remember the first thing he was supposed to
do, and shook his head in defeat. "God's blood," he muttered to Charon's
portrait. "Quicklime. Peruvian bark. Smoking hell."
    He kicked at a ball of dust and shrugged off his coat, electing to clean the
pheasant instead. He didn't intend to be hanging about gathering herbs and
whitewashing walls anyway—as soon as she could fend for herself, he intended to
leave her with some supplies and go looking for Nemo.
    When he took her a midday meal of
aigo boulido,
she was sitting up
in his chair, wrapped in a bed sheet. S.T. grunted in annoyance. "You'll have a
relapse, damn you. Get back in bed."
    She merely looked at him coolly, and then at the chipped bowl, full of bread
soaked in a broth of sage, garlic, and olive oil. S.T. ate it all the time; it
had kept Provencal Peasants alive for centuries. Marc even considered the dish
particularly suitable for invalids, S.T. knew, but Miss Leigh Strachan's nose
flared delicately as she turned her face away.
    "I cannot," she said, turning even paler.
    "You can't eat it?"
    "Garlic." The single word held soul-deep loathing.
    He sat down on the bed. "Very well." He held up the bowl and dug in himself.
She watched him with a faint pinch to her mouth. He leaned against the bedpost,
savoring the pungent soup. "What would you prefer, mademoiselle?"
    "Perhaps . . . some plain beef tea?"
    "I heard of a cow in Provence once," he said. "In Avignon. That's about
thirty leagues from here." He took another bite. "Lady Harvey had it imported
from England."
    "Oh."
    "She didn't care for goat's milk in her tea."
    Leigh bit her lip. "I should like my bread plain, then."
    "As you please." He shook his head, finishing off the last bite. "I'll bring
some for you before I go."
    "Go where?" she asked sharply.
    He set the bowl aside. "First to the village. Maybe farther; I don't know. I
was going to wait a day or two, but if you're strong enough to complain about
the menu, I believe I can leave you to lift your own food to your mouth."
    "Certainly I can, but you mustn't leave here now."
    He frowned down at his feet. "I won't touch anyone. I'll keep my distance. I
just need to—ask some questions."
    "Why?"
    He glanced down, fitting one fist inside the other. "My wolf . . . he's gone
off. I want to look for him."
    "He's lost?"
    "Possibly."
    "How long has he been gone?"
    He didn't look at her. "A fortnight."
    There was a long silence. S.T. drew a circle, and then a figure eight in his
hand.
    "It's my fault, then," she said quietly.
    He took a deep breath. "No. I sent him. To the