Jon Hale stood at the turn of the second-floor stairs, where the draft from the river slipped beneath the warped cedar siding of the upper corridor. He leaned against the rough-sawn balustrade, an unlit rushlight in his left hand, his sleeves turned up to the elbows.
Elin emerged from the corner bedchamber, carrying the brass wash-basin and the bundle of gray, pus-stained rags. The door closed behind her with a dry click of the iron latch, sealing the scent of salt and comfrey into the warded room.
She did not look up immediately. She set the basin on the low oak bench by the linen chest and wiped her hands on the clean corner of her apron, her breath rising in faint, pale plumes against the cold air of the landing.
“How is he?” Jon asked quietly.
“He drank half the mutton broth,” Elin answered, leaning her shoulders back against the whitewashed wall. “The comfrey took the fever down half a degree. His skin is cooling, but the wound looks like an auger hole drilled through a butcher’s block. The bone is weeping gray fluid.”
Jon shifted his position on the landing, looking at the water in the basin. “Did he speak?”
