“She is becoming weaker,” Nicanor said.

  He took the bark and the packet of mallow seeds from Lowen’s hands, carefully pouring them into the bowl with the petals he had stripped from the kostawort. Lowen watched him grind the mixture to sticky paste with a confident, steady motion.

  “You must have done this many times,” she said.

  Lowen reached for one of her grandmother’s flexing hands, forcing herself to hold it even as the cold grasp of her fingers prompted a roll of nausea to unfurl in her stomach. Her skin was dry as summer grass. Lowen took a deep breath, exhaling long and low through her mouth.

  “All satyrs are taught a certain amount of herb craft,” Nicanor told her as he worked. “Once we come of age, we are expected to spend longer periods of time alone in the forest.”

  “Why is that? I thought the satyr always hunted in groups, as we do.”

  “The time spent alone is not a time in which we hunt. It is a time devoted to becoming deeply familiar with the forest, a time to reflect and begin to understand the many rhythms of Nymed. In such a situation—when you are miles from your tribe, perhaps lost for a time until Mother Nymed shows you the path once more—a knowledge of herb craft can save your life. It would be foolish to die from an infected cut for want of a crushed yarrow leaf.”

  “Would it not be easier to simply take those remedies with you?”

  Nicanor shook his head, a small smile on his lips. “Committing to the Deep Time requires leaving the tribe with no possessions. No tools, no food. We trust that Mother Nymed will guide us to what we need.”

  “It sounds beautiful.” Lowen imagined being alone in the cool of the Deep Forest, surrounded only by bird calls and the sound of the wind in the trees. “Peaceful.”

  “It is.”

  She wondered what else she had yet to learn about Nicanor. Herb lore was something she had not known they had in common and the thought was disheartening. She wanted to question him further but he was already straightening, the crude pestle laid to rest beside the bowl.

  “Could you please remove the cauldron so I might stoke the fire? The mixture must be heated.”

  They found another, smaller cauldron half-hidden beneath the table, ringed with dust and full of dried poppy heads. Lowen scooped them out into a small pile on the floor and wiped the pot clean with a cloth.

  “Hold it steady,” Nicanor said.

  He hefted the heavy clay bowl from the table, stooping awkwardly in the small space to scrape the sticky goo into the cauldron. It was a pale mottled cream, the colour of dead flesh. The mixture began to sputter and smoke as soon as it touched the hot bottom of the cauldron suspended above the fire. It smelled like spice and rancid, clotting milk.

  “The Gift,” Conwen roused herself again. “Protect the Gift. Gwyrdmet.”

  “Hush, Grandmother,” Lowen said, bracing herself as she crouched before the rocking chair. Koth Conwen’s eyes were flickering back and forth. Her pale, dry tongue darted from her mouth, attempting to wet blue-cracked lips. Lowen gingerly stroked her hair. “You will soon be well.”

  Nicanor scooped up a mouthful of the spicy, pale-flesh elixir with a wooden spoon. He passed it to Lowen but when she offered it to her grandmother, the old woman wrinkled her nose and turned her head away.

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  “Please, Grandmother. You must drink this.”

  Conwen refused to open her mouth. Lowen leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You must drink this so you can help me find Gwyrdmet.”

  At this, the old woman’s eyes flickered again and she finally opened her mouth, allowing Lowen to place the spoon inside. She thought her grandmother would refuse to swallow the concoction but she did, grimacing as it passed thickly down her throat.

  Conwen lapsed back into a shallow sleep and Lowen waited, anxiously scanning her face for any sign of change.

  “What should we do now?” she asked Nicanor. “Is it working?”

  The stiff look of concern on the satyr’s face made the cold fear squatting in Lowen’s chest drop into her stomach.

  “We have done all we can,” he said. “We can only wait and see what fate has planned for her.”

  Lowen stood slowly.

  “Remain brave.” Nicanor placed his hands on her shoulders and drew her towards him, enveloping her against the warm, fragrant bulk of his chest. Lowen closed her eyes.

  “I worried you would abandon me,” she said. “I thought I was alone.”

  “I am so sorry, Lowen. I reacted appallingly before.”

  She began to reply but Nicanor continued, his words falling in a rush. “I have thought of little else these past two days and the conclusion I keep returning to is this: I love you. I love you and our child is a miracle. I’ll run away with you if that is best. I will beg a witch to disguise my horns, I’ll brave the world beyond this forest—”

  “Don’t run away just yet,” a sharp, croaky voice interjected. “I am in desperate need of some water to wash that disgusting taste from my mouth.”

  Lowen turned from Nicanor to see Koth Conwen sitting up in her chair. Her eyes were clear and a flush of colour was rising in her cheeks. She rushed to kneel before her.

  “I will fetch water,” Nicanor said.

  Conwen gazed down at Lowen, lifting one shaking hand to brush a piece of hair back behind her left ear. “I’m sorry for scaring you, Lowen. I am a foolish woman. I swam too far into the blue depths this time. I almost didn’t find my way back.”

  “But you did find your way back, all is well.”

  Nicanor returned with a cup of fresh water and Conwen stared at him as she drank, her eyes wide and shining. She drained the cup and handed it back, silently asking for more. After gulping down half the second cup in one long swallow, she smiled broadly. Her teeth were stained a ghostly blue.

  “Do I have this strapping young man to thank for my recovery, Lowen? That elixir tasted horribly fresh, and I know I haven’t yet shown you how to make it.”

  “You do.” Lowen rose to stand beside him. “Grandmother, this is Nicanor.”

  “I am extremely pleased to meet you, Nicanor.”

  “And I you,” the satyr said quickly.

  “How lucky I am your people have taught you some measure of herb lore. I obviously failed to inform my granddaughter that I have a small bottle of the very same foul-tasting elixir stashed away beneath my bedroll, kept just in case I ever went too far during one of my dalliances with Lady Bitterblue. Very silly on my part to keep such a thing a secret, I’m sure.”

  “Not silly at all, Grandmother.” The revelation stung, but her grandmother lived. That was all that mattered.

  “You are the first satyr I’ve seen in many a long year,” Conwen continued, talking as though the Blue Sickness had never been. As though they were exchanging pleasantries at a festival. “Tell me, have your kind always been this tall, or are you an abnormally giant specimen?”

  “I can assure you, I am but an average specimen,” Nicanor replied politely.

  “And is it true what they say about the size of a satyr’s horns? Do they really correlate with the size of their—”

  “Grandmother, please stop asking him these dreadful questions.” Lowen was blushing so furiously she could feel the heat prickling her face and neck.

  “I’m sorry. I’m simply making the most of having you here in my home, Nicanor. After all, when will I ever again have the pleasure of seeing a satyr squeezed into my little hut?”

  Lowen glanced at Nicanor, thinking surely he must be embarrassed, even annoyed at being asked such personal questions. He shook his head and laughed.

  “I have never heard of such a thing,” he said, reaching for Lowen’s hand and gently squeezing her fingers. “Your grandmother may ask me whatever she likes, Lowen.”

  “There is much love between you,” Conwen observed, her gaze lingering on their intertwined fingers. “That is good. You will need to draw strength from each other if you are to endure what is to come.”