When Payton’s nightshirt clung to him with the grit and stench of his illness, she knew she had to bathe him. She struggled to remove the garment from him, for he slipped in and out of consciousness, but at last she managed to do so.
He lay before her bare as the day he was born, an imposing and resplendent figure of a man, long and lean and hard, even in the grip of death.
As she bathed his body in lilac water, she could not help but look at him. His body conjured up a number of lurid images that had Mared blushing—even on what she feared was his deathbed, he had the power to stoke the flames inside her.
She tended him around the clock and prayed fervently she’d not fall ill, that she’d see him through. But the rain was relentless, soaking the world around them, dragging her hopes to the depths of despair.
She was heartened when Donalda came at her request on the third morning of Payton’s illness, smelling a bit like a wet dog. The old woman did not bother with pleasantries, but walked straight to Payton’s bedside and stared down at him. She put her gnarled hand to his brow, then to his throat.
“Putrid air, it is,” she said. “I’ll build a smoke to clear it.” She took something from the pocket of her old gown, went to the fire, and squatted down. Whatever she held, she tossed into the fire. It flared and hissed, and a rather pungent smoke filled the room.
Mared coughed, waved her hand before her face to dissipate the thick smoke. “What is it?” she asked, her eyes watering.
“Open the windows. The smoke will take away the putrid air,” Donalda said. Mared was more than happy to oblige. When they had opened all the windows, they stood together, Mared shivering, watching Payton as the smoke cleared the room.
After several moments passed, Mared said softly, “The potion didna work, Donalda.”
“Aye, what?” the woman asked, peering up at Mared.
“The potion ye gave me to keep me from him,” Mared said, nodding at Payton.
Donalda gave her a grin lacking several teeth. “Did it no’?”
Mared shook her head. “I’m here, am I no’?”
The old woman cackled and hit her hand on her thigh. “Of course it didna work, silly lass! Do ye believe ye need a potion to see what is truly in yer heart?” She laughed harshly again.
“I beg yer pardon?” Mared asked, feeling suddenly a bit miffed. “I came to ye in an hour of need, Donalda!”
“And I gave ye a bit of sweet wine!”
Mared blinked at the hag. “No’ a potion to make him see the truth in my heart?” she demanded, incensed.
Donalda laughed until she was overcome with a fit of coughing. “No, lass,” she wheezed. “I’m no’ a witch!”
That was debatable, but nevertheless, Mared asked “Then why—”
“Ach,” she said, flicking her wrist, interrupting Mared’s question. “I only told ye what ye wanted to hear. I’m an old woman. I know things,” she said, tapping her skull. “I see things,” she added, pointing to her eye. “And I know that ye will eventually set free the truth in yer heart, ye will.”
Now she was speaking nonsense. Mared frowned down at her. “I donna understand.”
“Aye,” Donalda sighed, nodding. “They never do. All right, then, the smoke has cleared. Give him water,” she said, nodding at Payton.
Mared looked at his sallow face. “The physician said I must no’. He said it might kill him.”
“Rubbish!” Donalda croaked. “Man canna live without water. He must have it to replace the body’s water he’s lost. Give him water when he asks.” She tightened her threadbare arisaidh around her bony shoulders and turned toward the door.
“Wait!” Mared cried.
“I’m done here. There’s naught more I can do for him.”
Mared fished two crowns from her pocket and hurried to give them to Donalda. The old woman took the money, then smiled up at Mared, her old eyes glittering. “Set it free, lass,” she said, and with a loud bark of laughter, she hobbled out of the room.
“Bloody old bat,” Mared muttered and shut the door behind her.
Payton did not improve with Donalda’s smoke, and his moaning frightened Mared; she was afraid to leave him, afraid he would perish in the night, so she slept on the small settee in his room, curled into a ball, her neck and back aching from it.
During the night, after his body had nothing left to expel, he began to ask for water. “I canna give it to ye, Payton,” she said soothingly. “It will kill ye.”
“Water,” he said again, grasping her arm and holding it with amazing strength for one so weak. “Water.”
“No,” she said firmly. “It will kill ye, do ye understand me? Ye canna have it!”
But he continued to beg for it, and on the fourth morning, when the day dawned a steel gray with cold rain, he begged her for water like a madman, his eyes glazed over, his hands wringing her gown, her arm. She noticed that his hands and feet had turned blue, and when she at last freed herself from his maniacal struggle, she found Beckwith and begged him to send for Dr. Thomson.