With a cheerful smile and a sidelong glance, he asked, “Should I be keeping an eye on her?  Making sure she doesn’t act like a certain other ladyship?”

Roderick opened his mouth to answer, but paused and thought about it.  Long hesitation turned into a cautiously observant blue gaze.

“Rod?”

“…If you can.”

“If I can?”

“She’s all your weaknesses, Henry.”

“Surely you—”

“No jest, friend,” Roderick assured him quietly.  He sank down in the bath until hot water lapped at his jawline.  “Tiny and delicate, sickly-looking as if she’s been sleepless many more nights than we have.  You have trouble with that type.”

‘…That is a problem.’

“I’ll just have to do my best then.  How long will this take?”

“No idea, really.”

“None?”

“She chased me out and demanded we wash,” he said.  “Soup was in the making when I left, so we might get a meal in, at least.”

‘But no word on a cure?’  The surrounding terrain of dense forest and tall mountains had frustrated their attempts to predict sundown for the last week or so.  Considering that, assurances of a decent meal before more unpredictable escapades was more than welcome.  ‘If she’s going to put off answers, are we sure she isn’t a crock like the rest?’

The king’s alchemists had failed.

The herbalists and doctors of the capital had failed.

Days and weeks were spent combing through priests of the church, witches and gypsies that ascribed to the old ways, and druids from the barbarian tribes.  The most legitimate and the most suspect—they all failed just the same.

“…How much stock do you put in her word, Rod?  You think she’s trustworthy?”

Blue eyes wavered, and after a long, long moment, he just smiled as if Henry hadn’t said anything.

“Rinse your hair and let’s get out.”  He dunked himself, scrubbed his hair briefly, and quickly rose and exited the bath.  By the time Henry did the same, Roderick was toweled half-dry and had poked his head out the bath house door.  “Samhain— aah, should I call you Sam, like she does?  Are the clothes dry?  There wasn’t one thing cleaner than anything else, so I washed it all, but—”

Henry sloshed out of the pool and availed himself of a thick towel laid out on a bench.  His personal belongings were next to it—his cutlery, his flask, his pockets and their contents, his knives.  He fingered the leather pockets, especially, and considered checking for missing coins, but Roderick returned with his clothing and offered it with a sheepish smile.

“Well, at least the linens are dry.  The wools might take a while.”

But rather than grab his clothes, Henry reached for Roderick’s wrist in a silent bid for assurance they both knew all-too-well.  Roderick patted his hand quietly.

“She’s a strange sort, but who knows.  You might even like her.”

“You trust too easily.”

“Then I suppose we’ll both be at her mercy.”