Edward got out of bed and quickly put on his pants and boots. More doors were slamming downstairs, and there was the scrape of heavy furniture being dragged across the floor. The castle could be under attack—it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. If Mary caught on that he was alive, she’d send soldiers to dispatch him straight away.
Edward looked around for a sword, but all he could find was a butter knife and his half of the broken broomstick, which would have to do. He stuck the knife in his boot, tightened his grip on the broom, threw open his chamber door, and stepped out into the hall.
Immediately he was hit with an invisible wall of Gran’s skunk stench, so strong it could have knocked him over. Another ominous sign.
Edward crept down the stairs, his heart thundering, his hair practically standing on end. The entire population of the castle added up to seven people: Edward, Gracie, Bess, Gran, a cook, an old lady-in-waiting who served as a housekeeper, and an ancient man-at-arms who could hardly lift his sword. If they were set upon by soldiers, they were done for. His head would be delivered to Mary in a basket, come morning.
The main hall was deserted, not even the fireplace flickering, but Edward could hear voices. He followed the sound to the kitchens. Banging. Yelling. Carefully, he pushed open the door a crack.
What he saw through the crack was Gran. The old lady was moving with uncharacteristic swiftness around the kitchen, lighting candles, followed closely by a drawn and grim-faced Bess.
“Yarrow, that’s what I need,” Gran said to Bess. “It’s a purple star-shaped flower. It should be in my storeroom hanging from the rafters. And horsetail, if you can find it. Go!”
Bess darted out of the room through the back door, which led out into the ruined courtyard. Then Gran put her foot up on a chair and hiked up her gown, showing a purple-veined leg. She started to hack at her underskirt with a kitchen knife. Edward must have made a sound then, because Gran looked up.
“Get in here, boy,” she barked.
Edward obeyed. No one else was in the kitchen. The long table in the center had been cleared off, and in the middle there was a cloak, and something on it—something dark and furry. An animal of some kind.
“Are you cooking something?” Edward asked stupidly. “What’s happening?”
Gran tossed him what was left of her undergarments. “Here. Tear this into strips.”
Before he could form a coherent protest, the door to the courtyard burst open, and Gracie and a stranger came in, lugging a large bucket of water between them. They went straight to the fire and poured the water into the cauldron that hung over the flames.
“Good. Now go to Elizabeth in the storeroom and help her find what I need. You know something of plants, I think?” Gran said to Gracie, who nodded and slipped out again.
“You,” Gran said to the man who’d helped Gracie bring in the bucket. “Sit down before you fall down. I don’t want to be stitching up your head tonight, as well.”
The man swallowed like it would hurt him to attempt to speak. He was sweat-stained and unwashed, and he looked exhausted. He pulled a chair over to the table and sank into it, gazing down at the tiny creature. It was a mink, Edward thought, similar to a pelt his sister Mary wore as a scarf around her neck in the winter months. Beautiful, soft fur. But why all this fuss over a mink?
The man reached out a hand to stroke the small head, with such tenderness that Edward’s breath caught. But the creature didn’t stir.
The man’s lips moved, a word that resembled please.
“Edward. The linens,” Gran snapped.
The man looked up at Edward and met his eyes.
It was Gifford Dudley.
Jane’s husband. Here. The look on his face like his heart was being rent in two. Like the little mink on the table meant more to him than anything else in the world. Like it was him dying.
Edward’s breath left his lungs.
“Is that Jane?” he gasped. “Jane! Is that Jane?”
Gran grabbed him by the collar and dragged him away from the table. “Yes, it’s Jane, and she’s hurt, and I’m really going to need those linens, boy.”
Immediately Edward set to tearing up the linens, all the while watching Gifford, who kept his eyes on the table—Jane! Jane!—his expression so miserable and so lost that it was no wonder Edward hadn’t recognized him at first.
What had happened to them?
The water in the cauldron was hot. Edward finished tearing up Gran’s underskirt, and Bess and Gracie returned with the herbs. Gran brought a candlestick over to the table and peeled the bandages back to reveal the mink’s long, blood-streaked body. Edward’s heart was in his throat as Gran peered at the small form.
“She was wounded in this form, not as a human?” she asked Gifford gruffly.
Gifford nodded. “We were trying to . . . I don’t know what happened, really.” His voice faded. “It was so fast.”
Bess handed Gran a bowl of the paste she’d made from the herbs, and a basin of hot water. Gran began to clean Jane’s wounds. Within moments, the water was pink.
Edward felt light-headed. And also like he might lose his rabbit-stew dinner.