I stop and consider his question. I did say that, didn’t I? I resume foraging and shake my head. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Try.”

“It wouldn’t make any sense.” I move towards the bed.

“You’re probably right,” he shrugs. “But look around. Nothing makes sense anymore. Humor me.”

I take a deep breath and shake the bed covers. I suppose he’s right about that. I drop to all fours to search under the mattress and decide that I feel sorry enough for him to share.

“Last night, I had this dream,” I say. “Only, it didn’t feel anything like a dream. I could’ve sworn I was awake. It felt so real.” Nothing lies under the bed but more dust. I scowl. On to the wardrobe.

“First, I saw Lorna, then Torrent and Lin. But it was so dark…” I swing open the doors and check each piece of simple clothing. On the wardrobe floor lies a coif and some ripped pieces of black cloth. Absolutely nothing of use. Now, I’m angry.

“Anyway, Lorna looked me dead in the eyes and said, ‘Torrent lifted the carriage just in time.’ Her hair was covered by black fabric. Then, I started going in and out of sleep and heard Lin say something about a spirit. Or phantom? I don’t remember. I woke up to Lorna standing over me with her hatchet, telling me to be silent.”

Braizen is quiet.

“What, no quips about my stupid dream?” I ask without turning around.

He doesn’t answer.

“Oh, really? Have I convinced you that easily? That’s a first,” I mutter.

I finally stop my frantic search. The cottage contains nothing I can use to help him. “Looks like you were right,” I concede, shoving the last drawer closed. “Maybe there’s a garden, and we just try different things.” The eerie silence is deafening.

“Braizen?” I turn and gasp.

He’s slumped in his chair, his pale body drenched in sweat.

“Braizen!” I scream, lunging towards him. My hands shake, mere inches away from his body. I don’t know what to do. I can’t touch him! I can’t help him! “Lady and Guard,” I breathe and grab the dried herbs from the table, then kneel in front of him.

I press the herbs against his wound in a fit of chaotic dread. His face betrays no reaction. “Oh gods,” I cry under my breath. “Please… Please don’t die.”

Even though my first search didn’t unearth any, I wildly scout the room for spirits, or anything that might help disinfect the wound. I turn in circles and wring my hands in growing panic. Hot tears stream down my cheeks. Braizen is dying, and I can’t even hold him as he does. He’s dying.