‘Oh?’ Leesha asked, crossing her arms. ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’
Bruna snorted. ‘Not a one,’ she said, not even turning Leesha’s way. ‘I’ve been around long enough to know that trick,’ she said, ‘just as I know Maverick the Messenger hasn’t made eye contact with you once in all your talks.’
‘His name is Marick,’ Leesha said again, ‘and he does, too.’
‘Only if he doesn’t have a clear view of your neckline,’ the crone said.
‘You’re impossible,’ Leesha huffed.
‘No cause for shame,’ Bruna said. ‘If I had paps like yours, I’d flaunt them too.’
‘I do not flaunt!’ Leesha shouted, but Bruna only cackled again.
A horn sounded, not far off.
‘That will be young master Marick,’ Bruna advised. ‘You’d best hurry and primp.’
‘It’s not like that!’ Leesha said again, but Bruna dismissed her with a wave.
‘I’ll put that tea on, just in case,’ she said. Leesha threw a rag at the old woman and stuck out her tongue, moving towards the door.
Outside on the porch, she smiled in spite of herself as she waited for the Messenger. Bruna pushed her to find a man nearly as much as her mother did, but the crone did it out of love. She wanted only for Leesha to be happy, and Leesha loved her dearly for it. But despite the old woman’s teasing, Leesha was more interested in the letters Marick carried than his wolf eyes.
Ever since she was young, she had loved Messenger days. Cutter’s Hollow was a little place, but it was on the road between three major cities and a dozen hamlets, and between the Hollow’s timber and Erny’s paper, it was a strong part of the region’s economy.
Messengers visited the Hollow at least twice a month, and while most mail was left with Smitt, they delivered to Erny and Bruna personally, frequently waiting for replies. Bruna corresponded with Gatherers in Forts Rizon and Angiers, Lakton, and several hamlets. As the crone’s eyesight failed, the task of reading the letters and penning Bruna’s replies fell to Leesha.
Even from afar, Bruna commanded respect. Indeed, most of the Herb Gatherers in the area had been students of hers at one time or another. Her advice was frequently sought to cure ailments beyond others’ experience, and offers to send her apprentices came with every Messenger. No one wished for her knowledge to pass from the world.
‘I’m too old to break in another novice!’ Bruna would grouse, waving her hand dismissively, and Leesha would pen a polite refusal, something she had gotten quite used to.
All this gave Leesha many opportunities to talk with Messengers. Most of them leered at her, it was true, or tried to impress her with tales of the Free Cities. Marick was one of those.
But the Messengers’ tales struck a chord with Leesha. Their intent might have been to charm their way into her skirts, but the pictures their words painted stayed with her in her dreams. She longed to walk the docks of Lakton, see the great warded fields of Fort Rizon, or catch a glimpse of Angiers, the forest fortress; to read their books and meet their Herb Gatherers. There were other guardians of knowledge of the old world, if she dared seek them out.
She smiled as Marick came into view. Even a ways off, she knew his gait, legs slightly bowed from a life spent on horseback. The Messenger was Angierian, barely as tall as Leesha at five foot seven, but there was a lean hardness about him, and Leesha hadn’t exaggerated about his wolf eyes. They roved with predatory calm, searching for threats … and prey.
‘Ay, Leesha!’ he called, lifting his spear towards her.
Leesha lifted her hand in greeting. ‘Do you really need to carry that thing in broad day?’ she called, indicating the spear.
‘What if there was a wolf?’ Marick replied with a grin. ‘How would I defend you?’
‘We don’t see a lot of wolves in Cutter’s Hollow,’ Leesha said, as he drew close. He had longish brown hair and eyes the colour of tree bark. She couldn’t deny that he was handsome.
‘A bear, then,’ Marick said as he reached the hut. ‘Or a lion. There are many kinds of predator in the world,’ he said, eyeing her cleavage.
‘Of that, I am well aware,’ Leesha said, adjusting her shawl to cover the exposed flesh.
Marick laughed, easing his Messenger bag down onto the porch. ‘Shawls have gone out of style,’ he advised. ‘None of the women in Angiers or Rizon wear them anymore.’
‘Then I’ll wager their dresses have higher necks, or their men more subtlety,’ Leesha replied.
‘High necks,’ Marick agreed with a laugh, bowing low. ‘I could bring you a high-necked Angierian dress,’ he whispered, drawing close.
‘When would I ever have cause to wear that?’ Leesha asked, slipping away before the man could corner her.
‘Come to Angiers,’ the Messenger offered. ‘Wear it there.’
Leesha sighed. ‘I would like that,’ she lamented.
‘Perhaps you will get the chance,’ the Messenger said slyly, bowing and sweeping his arm to indicate that Leesha should enter the hut before him. Leesha smiled and went in, but she felt his eyes on her backside as she did.
Bruna was back in her chair when they entered. Marick went to her and bowed low.
‘Young master Marick!’ Bruna said brightly. ‘What a pleasant surprise!’
‘I bring you greetings from Mistress Jizell of Angiers,’ Marick said. ‘She begs your aid in a troubling case.’ He reached into his bag and produced a roll of paper, tied with stout string.
Bruna motioned for Leesha to take the letter, and sat back, closing her eyes as her apprentice began to read.
‘Honoured Bruna, Greetings from Fort Angiers in the year 326 AR,’ Leesha began.
‘Jizell yapped like a dog when she was my apprentice, and she writes the same way,’ Bruna cut her off. ‘I won’t live forever. Skip to the case.’
Leesha scanned the page, flipping it over and looking over the back, as well. She was on to the second sheet before she found what she was looking for.
‘A boy,’ Leesha said, ‘ten years old. Brought into the hospit by his mother, complaining of nausea and weakness. No other symptoms or history of illness. Given grimroot, water, and bed rest. Symptoms increased over three days, with the addition of rash on arms, legs, and chest. Grimroot, raised to three ounces over the course of several days.
‘Symptoms worsened, adding fever and hard, white boils growing out of the rash. Salves had no effect. Vomiting followed. Given heartleaf and poppy for the pain, soft milk for the stomach. No appetite. Does not appear to be contagious.’
Bruna sat a long while, digesting the words. She looked at Marick. ‘Have you seen the boy?’ she asked.
The Messenger nodded.
‘Was he sweating?’ Bruna asked.
‘He was,’ Marick confirmed, ‘but shivering, too, like he was both hot and cold.’
Bruna grunted. ‘What colour were his fingernails?’ she asked.
‘Fingernail colour,’ Marick replied with a grin.
‘Get smart with me and you’ll regret it,’ Bruna warned.
Marick blanched and nodded. The old woman questioned him for a few minutes more, grunting occasionally at his responses. Messengers were known for their sharp memories and keen observation, and Bruna did not seem to doubt him. Finally, she