Isla nodded. Delia sighed, put her hands palm up on her lap with the scrap of vellum in them, closed her eyes, and concentrated with all her might on the inside of that notecase, the flap inside of the back cover, how the leather had some perforations in it because she had started to embroider that side as well with a red rose, the symbol of love, and had stopped herself and picked it all out again.

She felt the tension of Fetching building up inside her, and continued to let it build, and build, and build, until her head blazed with pain and she didn’t think she could hold this for one moment longer.

Then she released it, and immediately blacked out.

She came to with her head in Isla’s lap, and a headache behind her eyes that was at least as bad as the one she’d had after Fetching that wretched rock from the wilderness. She winced away at the light.

“I caught you before you fell,” said Isla. “That headache is all reaction-headache. Which is actually a good thing, since it means I have potions that I can give you that will put you to sleep until it ebbs.”

“Did it work?” she asked, around a mouth so dry it felt as if she hadn’t had anything to drink in a year.

“Well,” Isla said, “the note went somewhere. If it didn’t go to the right place, no harm. We’ll know tomorrow morning, I expect.”

Delia sighed and allowed herself to be helped to her feet. Isla helped her stagger to her room, where she dropped into bed and lay there, fully clothed until Isla returned with the promised potion.

Which tasted vile, with a bitter, fetid aftertaste no amount of honey would cover up.

And after a while, relief came, then sleep.

—

Delia woke, feeling weak, empty, and starving; by the light at the windows it was almost sundown, and she thought briefly about trying to stagger down to the kitchen to get something to eat, or better yet, call for a servant to get something for her.

But there was a tray covered by a linen napkin on a small table that had been moved to the bedside. Under the napkin were a hand-sized loaf of bread, butter, a cold chicken leg, an enormous dill pickle, a cherry tart, a pitcher of water, and a goblet with honeyed wine in it, as she discovered by taste. She ate the bread and butter and stripped every bit of meat from the chicken bones, ate the tart—and looked dubiously at the pickle. She didn’t much care for dill pickles. But Isla knew that, so it had to be there for a reason.

She bit into it, and discovered herself licking her fingers, having swiftly devoured it in moments. Something in her had craved something that was in it.