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I add the crushed root to the pot. Steam curls upward, carrying rirzed and bitter heat. I place the pot on a stone tile between us and drape a clean cloth over Briar’s head and the rising steam.

“Breathe slowly,” I tell her. “Not too deeply at first.”

She grips the cloth closed around her shoulders. “Will it hurt?”

“No.”

“How can you promise?”

“Because I have prepared this treatment many times.”

“For humans?”

“For anyone who needed to breathe.”

That answer loosens something in her posture.

She inhales. The first breath triggers another cough. I steady the pot before she can jostle it.

“Again,” I say.

Her next breath is shallower. The one after it reaches deeper without catching. Color begins returning to her lips.

I count each breath while watching the pulse in her throat. The fever concerns me, but the sound in her lungs is not yet deep enough to suggest the worst kind of winter sickness. Rest, warmth, and a proper infusion may keep it from settling there.

After several minutes, I remove the cloth.

Briar blinks through the steam. “It is easier.”

“That is the purpose.”

“I thought it would burn.”

“The root can irritate the skin if used carelessly. In steam, with rirzed, it helps loosen what is trapped in your chest.”

I pour some of the infusion into a cup and add a spoonful of dark honey from the household stores.

“Drink this when it cools.”

Her eyes drop to the honey. “That is for the upper household.”

“It is in my cup.”

“My lady…”

“Drink.”

She obeys, taking a cautious sip. Her face twists at the bitterness.

I slide a second cup of warm water toward her. “You may chase it with that.”

“You make it sound like a punishment.”

“Most useful remedies taste as though they resent being useful.”

A small laugh escapes her and becomes a cough. The cough is looser now. She spits into the cloth I give her, then stares at the stain with embarrassment.

“I am sorry.”