Fearchar’s fingers brushed his as he fought with the pin. A resounding pressure threatened to crush the red head’s skull. “Ye’re heid ‘urts,” Fearchar muttered to the exhausted doctor. “Seonaid, love, can ye find his box a’ headache med’cine ‘n some water?” Fearchar asked his wife.
“It’s over here.” She went and found the small packets of powder. Carefully, she mixed it into a cup of water and brought it back to the bed. She pressed it to Eoin’s lips.
He pushed the cup away, Alcohol and willow don’t pair well.
“Med’cine don’nae mix with the ale?” Fearchar asked.
No, it’s bad for your heart and stomach, the doc elaborated.
“A’right, we’ll leave it on the table here and you can take it in the morning if your head still hurts. How’s that sound?” Seonaid asked him. Eoin nodded. His insides were cold and hollow and his temples throbbed, sending shooting pain behind his eyes.
Seonaid loosened her ties, pulled off her jacket, and unlaced her sleeves. Fearchar walked over to her and helped her with her stays, petticoat, and underpetticoat, leaving her in her linen shift. He kissed her neck and wrested his head against hers. “Let’s get him ta’ bed and go ta sleep,” she whispered to her husband.
” ‘greed, Ah am goin’ ta’ kip f’r the next two days,” he promised her.
“I’ll join you,” she stifled a yawn.
They both approached Eoin once more. They reached out to help him up. He grabbed their hands without thinking.
They found themselves suspended once more in his void.
Magaidh had wrapped his neck. He and his bairns hid in her house as he waited for the wound to heal. He learned to poultice and plaster himself. She taught him how to cook and clean in a method that would be conducive to him being hired into a big house. She had hoped to hide him away into a noble family with a steady income.
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