“There wasn’t anything strange the patients were eating or drinking, was there?” When Hannah shook her head, Wren pressed, “And no one in particular who delivered all their meals to them?”

“Not anybody in particular, no. We changed up who brought their meals. Drew sticks on it, actually. No one wanted to go into the sickroom, considering, well…” A worried notch appeared between her eyebrows. “Why?”

“Standard healer questions.” Wren pinned a smile in place. “And there was no one new in the house over the past few weeks who could have introduced the contagion?”

“The Duke of Matthonwy and a gentleman named Mr. Glyde—his lawyer, I believe—were here last.”

The duke was widely reported to be friends with Lord Lowry, so he was an unlikely suspect. “What about anyone who dislikes him?”

“Standard healer questions indeed,” she muttered. “Lord Lowry has a fair many people who dislike him. He can be … provocative. But he’s harmless. I would say more people are worried about him. Nobody sees him much anymore. Last year, there was a party every week. And now … Well, he keeps to himself.”

“And what of Henry?”

“Henry.” She shook her head, as if exasperated. “He reminds me a bit of you. Always peppering me with questions. He wanted to know what guests Lord Lowry hosted, or if anyone we didn’t know came through, but he was never pleased with the answers. I didn’t know him well at all, to be honest. He wasn’t unkind, but he wasn’t friendly either. Before I could crack him, he fell ill.”

“I see.”

“Are you cold?”

Wren glanced down at the gooseflesh stippling her arms. “Oh, yes. I’m still getting used to the weather, is all.”

She pulled at the edges of her sleeves like they were a stubborn knot. According to Lowry’s account, Hal had left Vesria to come here and pose as a servant. If he was asking questions, it meant he was looking for something in Colwick Hall—something he never found before he fell “ill.” Something, perhaps, regarding his lead on the missing soldiers.

The more the story unwound, the more of a tangled mess it became.

“I wanted to ask you something, too,” Hannah said, drawing her from her thoughts.

“Anything.”

“Do you really think you can cure him? Everyone who’s gotten sick has lived longer than the person before, but…”

But no one survived.

Wren sagged under the weight of her books. The truly honest answer to her question was no. There wasn’t a chance. With no sample of the original poison, she couldn’t conjure a cure from nothing. But tentative hope shone in Hannah’s eyes, and Wren could not bear to crush it. One of them needed to be optimistic, anyway.

“Of course I can.”