The Poison Diaries: Nightshade by Maryrose Wood

clattering of my teeth. “Instead I find her fever is broken. My wife says this lady, Miss Rowan – the one you treat like a criminal – came by and held her hand. Offered some tea. Said a prayer for her health. Did any of you do as much?”
    There is no answer save the embarrassed shuffling of feet. He glares at the innkeeper. “If trying to help a sick child is a crime, then arrest me too, for going to fetch a doctor. Arrest my wife, for she has been caring for the girl since midnight.”
    The innkeeper holds up his hands, as if to stave off the rug seller’s mounting anger. “All right, calm down, nobody’s been arrested. The fever’s broken, you say?”
    â€œThanks be to God, it has.” The rug seller’s voice crackles with fury. “And I will say one more thing, sir. If this is the way guests are treated at your inn, then you will soon have no customers. No business! I will speak of it everywhere I go. I will make sure that every traveller from Inverness to Baghdad knows what terrible things happen inside this establishment.”
    The innkeeper grumbles a few words of excuse,if not apology. But the spell of accusation is broken. He waves his hands at the group and shoos them out, scolding, “The girl wears make-up and drinks tea, and for that you want me to think she’s some kind of sorceress! Troublemakers, away with you! If you weren’t leaving in the morning I’d toss you out myself, and never mind how much money you spend at the saloon…”
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    Maryam’s father finds a robe for me. He stays with me as I gather up my possessions – all my money has disappeared, but at least the packets of herbs remain – and helps carry them back to my room.
    After he leaves, I wrap myself in every blanket I can find. If I could only get warm, I know I would sleep the sleep of the dead, but I cannot. My body is battered, but my mind whirls, and rest eludes me. Time is wasting, but I am too weak to do what I know I must.
    Within the hour Maryam’s mother arrives with a mug of hot broth. She wants to feed me as if I werethe sick child, but I tell her to leave it on the nightstand. “Your daughter needs you,” I say. “Go back to Maryam.”
    She nods, wringing her hands. “My husband is with her now. But I had to come myself to say this: I am so sorry to hear what they did, Miss Rowan. I want you to know I said nothing, to anyone. I kept my promise. When my husband returned from town, he told me that he heard many people talking about a witch, a young woman, being drowned in the river by a mob. I remembered what you said to me, and I became afraid. I told him to go look for you – I am glad he found you. And now see how you shiver! I am afraid you will be the next one to get sick.”
    All at once my eyes are so heavy I can scarcely sit up. “It is not your fault,” I mumble. “I am grateful for your kindness. If you will forgive me, I must rest.”
    She nods and moves to the door but lingers there. “I do not understand these people,” she says. “We will travel with them no more. And you will not, to be sure. Miss Rowan, promise me you will ride with us?We have room in the cart. My husband does not mind walking. And this way you will be with us – in case Maryam’s fever returns, or in case you need someone to care for you.”
    â€œWe can talk about it tomorrow.” I offer a weak smile. “And I promise to drink the broth.”
    She goes, and I take a few spoonfuls. The heat of it warms me just enough to crawl into bed and bury myself beneath the quilt.
    My last thought as I finally drift into sleep is to marvel that there are still good hearts in the world. Not many. But some.
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    I am sinking, again. Pulled down this time. Weighed down, as if a large stone is pressed upon my chest.
    The plants at the bottom of the river beckon. I peer through the murk at the greenish