Epilogue
“Oh, this is terrible. Just terrible.”
Since Mother’s refrain hadn’t changed much in the hour since she’d come into the solar to “help,” Nicola felt justified in ignoring her. Instead, she tried to block out the older woman’s mumbles and pacing and hand-wringing and concentrate on her measurements.
Should she bring a full measure of wormwood, or would a half-measure do?
The nunnery would likely have it in their herb garden, but could she trust them to have dried it properly for use?
Oh, St. Crystal’s retina, ‘tis no’ as if ye dinnae have room in yer bags for an extra handful.
Mind made up, Nicola carefully poured more of the herb into the pouch, then hefted it. Aye, ‘twould do. Besides, how much trouble could a cohort of nuns get into, really? ‘Twas unlikely she’d have to deal with stab wounds and whatnot.
On the other hand, Coira was escorting her….
Lips curling wryly, Nicola slid the pouch of wormwood into the pile of supplies to secure to her saddle.
“Just terrible. Terrible. How could ye do this to me? Yer own mother? I birthed ye, I raised ye, I cared for ye….”
Nicola managed to refrain from snorting as she turned back to hear weights and measures on her worktable.
More like I cared for ye.
“And now my darling daughter is preparing to abandon me most cruelly, just when I need her most!”
With a sigh, Nicola rounded on her mother, her hands on her hips. “And why do ye need me? In particular, right now? What is wrong this time?”
Mother was wringing her hands in front of her. With a completely serious expression, she announced, “My collapsing malaria is acting up again.”
Collapsing malaria?
Collapsing malaria?
Only years of experience treating Mother’s ridiculous ailments kept Nicola from reacting. She might’ve wanted to sigh meaningfully, pinch the bridge of her nose, and shake her head. She could’ve thrown up her hands and shouted, “Ye complete imbecile, ye cannae just slap two words together and claim ye suffer from it! No’ when I’m busy suffering from ye!”
But she didn’t, because she’d learned Mother’s tears were worse than her collapsing malaria. Or screaming lupus. Or, that one time, cow herpes.
So instead, Nicola managed to keep wearing her “healer face,” as Coira called it; the calm and empathetic expression she’d perfected for when it came time to meet a new patient.
Or an old one.
“Aright, Mother. I’ll make certain to leave plenty of rosemary.” She’d convinced Mother years ago that rosemary could cure most ailments. “All ye need to do is mix it with some honey water and whisky whenever ye feel a bout of—of collapsing malaria coming on.” St. Crystal protect her, ‘twas difficult to keep a straight face. “As always, it’ll protect ye.”
“Will that be enough?” Still, with the handwringing.
Nicola stifled her sigh and shook her head as she turned back to her herbs. “I promise.”
Mother wailed, “How could ye do this to me?”
“Me?” Giving up on calm and empathetic, Nicola whirled to pierce her mother with a glare. “How could I do this to ye?
The older woman was still pacing, the skirt of her blue gown swishing around her. For the first time, Nicola noticed her mother was looking frailer, her shoulders and her hands thinner and more delicate than they used to be.
“How could ye go off and leave me, Nicola?” Mother sniffed. “How could ye even consider it?”
Nicola reached for her mother, pulling her into her arms on her next pass. When had she grown taller than the woman who’d birthed her? Mayhap ‘twas just that Mother seemed smaller these days. She tucked the older woman against her shoulder.
“Ye kenned this day was coming, Mother,” she said gently. “Da declared we must all be married, after all.”