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“I’m not taking medicine from your winter supply.”

“You are part of the winter supply.”

His brow furrows.

“You haul fuel,” I continue. “You repair roofs. You have three children and a wife who needs you breathing. If you collapse, Lowtown loses more than one stubborn man.”

“Other people need it.”

“Other people are receiving it. Take the packet.”

He looks toward my clinic. Its stone walls are sound, but the wooden sign above the door hangs from a single chain. Frost rims the small window. Behind the glass, shelves hold rows of jars that appear plentiful from the lane. Bran has known me too long to be deceived by appearances. Half those jars contain dried plants that will not last through deep winter. Several others hold remedies for ailments unlikely to kill anyone before spring.

The herbs we need most are the ones disappearing fastest.

He takes the packet.

“Half tonight,” I repeat. “Half tomorrow morning. If the cough worsens, you come back. If you begin bringing up blood, you send your wife for me.”

His mouth twists. “You’ll walk through a blizzard to lecture me?”

“I’ll walk through a blizzard to keep your wife from becoming a widow. The lecture is for my enjoyment.”

A rough laugh escapes him and becomes another cough. I wait until his breathing settles.

“Inside,” I order.

“You’re not my captain.”

“No captain wants responsibility for you.”

He gathers the tinctures into a pouch, muttering about tyrannical healers. I pick up the returned daler from my palm and slip it into the outer pocket of his coat.

He catches the movement.

I stare at him.

Bran considers arguing. Wisdom defeats pride for once. He adjusts the pouch at his belt instead.

“I’ll bring another load after the next cut,” he says.

“At the proper price.”

“At a price.”

“Bran.”

He lifts both hands in surrender and walks toward the market’s western lane.

The stiff set of his shoulders worries me more than the coughing.

I carry the basket into my clinic, then return for an armful of wood. The tiphe is heavier than its thin appearance suggests. Sap darkens the fresh cuts. Damp pieces will smoke, but even poor fuel can mean the difference between frostbitten fingers and hands capable of work.

Two children wait beside the door when I emerge again. Toma has a scraped knee. His younger sister holds a rag against it with solemn concentration.

“What happened?” I ask.

“He fought the well,” she says.