Claire came up beside him and took the jar from his hands. “Yes, I did, and it’s meant for the winter.” But she was fighting a smile as she capped the jar. The smile, though, faded. She knew what she had to do. There was no other course. And she couldn’t expect Bayard to understand. He wasn’t a witch and he didn’t know all that she did.
Leo was dead the moment his curse awoke at the touch of that athame. When the fever finished burning away every last ounce of goodness, an entirely different person would climb out of that cot. It wouldn’t be the boy sweet, chivalrous Bayard took under his wing. It would be something different. Something evil. And she could not, in good conscious, allow that to walk out of her cottage, even if it was a boy who had barely lived.
“Bayard,” she said softly, “I must tell you…this fever has come on too soon. I think you should…should be prepared for the worst." He can never know what I plan to do.
♘—"But my heart is cold as the icy winds these lands cradle in the dead of winter and your jam is the warmest of fires,” he teased even as he handed the jar to her.
The mirth all but faded at the sight of the boy again, and her words were a dagger sliding across his heart. “I know,” came the soft reply. “In my time here, I’ve seen four men taken by this blasted fever. ‘Tis brutal…I can’t imagine a child–” he turned away and sucked in a deep breath, then walked towards Leo. Crouching near him, he pressed a hand to the boy’s burning forehead. “You’re a strong lad,” he whispered. “The strongest squire I’ve ever had. Just ride it out for me. For your mother… May the guardians watch over you.” He kissed his forehead, feeling a warm tear sprint down his cheek onto the boy’s face.
When he turned back to Claire, his face was composed, even with the smear of wetness on his cheek. “Try your best. I…want Leo to have a chance. Just one…”
