Page 62 of The Frozen River

Doctor answers without hesitation. “They are used to stop a child from growing in the womb. One brings les régles”—she sets a hand, fingers spread, on her lower abdomen, then clenches it into a fist—“and the other cramping. But you already knew that, non?”

“I tended a woman recently, Rebecca Foster, who took them together. A great deal from what I can gather. But she didn’t lose the child.”

“The baby wasn’t welcome?”

“It was forced upon her.”

It isn’t so much that Doctor winces, but a shadow flickers through her dark, velvet eyes. Briefly. Just the ghost of an emotion, gone as quickly as it came. “So she wants to try les herbes again?”

“No. Or at least she hasn’t said so. And I wouldn’t recommend it anyway. I didn’t give them to her in the first place.”

“Bon. Savine is wicked. Kills a woman as often as it helps.”

“But will it cause harm to the child afterward—since it failed to unroot? That is what I need to know.” The idea of Rebecca Foster being left, not just with an unwanted baby, but with an invalid has made me lose more than one night’s sleep.

“No more than the mother. Is she bien?”

“I fear she’ll never be well.” I tap my chest with one finger. “In here.” Then I move that finger to my temple and tap again. “Or here.”

“You are worried she will hurt le bébé when it comes? Or herself?”

“I am worried about ten thousand things.”

Doctor laughs, a deep and rich timbre that fills the cabin. “Then you haven’t learned much about being a healer.” She sees the look of hurt cross my face but doesn’t chase it with an apology. “Have you done all you can to help this woman?”

“Yes.”

“Worry only about the care you give when called upon. The rest is not yours to fret about. Ah,” Doctor says, holding up one finger. “Someone is coming.”

“Who?”

“My next patient.”

I turn to the door and listen. At first, I hear nothing but pine boughs creaking in the wind and the siskins who live deep within their branches calling to one another. But then, after a few long seconds, I detect the steady clomp of hooves making their way across the clearing.

“Who gave Madame Foster les herbes if it was not you?”

I glance at the woven basket beside her. “I believe it was the Wabanaki, though I cannot be sure. They have long been friends.”

“Ah. That is why she did not die. As to why the child stayed rooted? You must ask them. I have yet to see the Wabanaki make a mistake with les herbes.”

Doctor remains in her chair, hands folded in her lap. She nods once. I have been dismissed.

“Thank you,” I say, rising.

Doctor smiles. “For what?”

“Reminding me that I am not God.”

Again, that laugh, like water over rocks. “Had you forgotten?”

“No. Only that there are some hurts I will never be skilled enough to heal.”

Inscrutable as always, Doctor only stares as I go to the door. I slide into my riding cloak and pull on my gloves. We are not friends. Not in the traditional sense. I would like it to be so, but I can sense the wall between us. A barrier impervious to my admiration. Perhaps one day I will win her over.

A knock sounds on the door.

Doctor looks at me but speaks to this new arrival. “Entrez,” she says.