The boy’s body jerks violently again, his eyes rolling back.
Someone gasps. “He’s dying!”
“No, he isn’t,” my maid snaps as she pries his jaw open carefully and rubs the crushed herbs along his gums, then presses two fingers against his throat.
“Come on,” she murmurs softly. “Breathe, little wolf.”
The crowd stare as if they are witnessing witchcraft.
Women weren’t healers; everyone knew that. It was forbidden, yet my maid continues as if she has done this a hundred times.
She massages the boy’s throat carefully, helping him swallow the crushed herbs.
The boy’s body convulses again—harder this time—before a violent cough erupts from him. His body curls forward as air finally tears into his lungs.
“There!” she says quickly. “Water. Someone bring water!”
A man rushes forward with a c
