I hurried on. When I didn’t hear his pounding feet, I stopped again and turned, still on my hands and knees. He stared, frozen. In the darkness, the whites of his eyes were bright as they bore down on me.

What was he about? I blinked and squinted up at his expression. If I didn’t know better, I would guess the emotion there was—guilt.

Suddenly, he moved. “You stay here,” he said. He walked away.

Confused, I stayed put.

A second later, he was back at my side with my pallium. Up close, his guilt was unmistakable. He grunted and thrust the cloth toward me.

Quickly, I took my cloak and threw it around my shoulders, hiding my torn dress. I looked back at him. Something had changed, but what? He held out his hand. I hesitated then, slowly, let him pull me aright. We stood for a while, facing each other.

He was dark-skinned and older than I’d first imagined, in his forties. He was broad, and extremely tall. His arms were heavy with muscle. He stepped forward, lifting one large hand. I jerked back.

“Shh,” he said, coming closer.

He was so big. I closed my eyes, trembling.

“Shh.” He plucked gently at my hair. “You hair,” he said.

I opened my eyes. His black and orange fingers threw aside a dry leaf. He picked out another.

“You hair,” he said, again. He showed me the new leaf and let it fall, harmless, to the ground. He thumbed his chest. “I am William.”

He had a small mark above his mouth and my eyes narrowed on it. It wasn’t much, just a pitch-black circle, one millimeter wide, above his mouth and off to the right. A birthmark.

“I not hurt you, Arika.”

Slowly, I nodded, not daring to remind him how to properly address his betters. His guilt at tearing my dress had softened him toward me—and that was enough for now. Besides, there were important matters to attend to. I pointed to the sick room. “Can you help me get into that warehouse?”

His expression was unreadable. He raised a brow. “You medicine man?”

Rueful, I shook my head. He made a good point. I could read and write hundreds of words per minute. I could dictate, memorize and recite several of the thickest volumes in the library along with the Niagara Compromise, annotated. However, I had no medical knowledge to speak of. “No. I’m not a medicine man,” I admitted.

“Then how you help?”

From inside the sick room, Hosea Khan shouted an order. “Tourniquet!” Feet pounded, rushing to obey.