A rattling exhalation signaled Niamh had woken. Light from a low candle standing on a nearby table cast dancing shadows across the bed and illuminated the sick woman’s features.

Even now, after months of watching her mother waste away with illness, Imogen's shock at the ghastly change didn't diminish. Once tall and vibrant, with lush curves and a face so beautiful the local bards crafted poems in her honor, Niamh had withered to a shrunken wraith. The long red hair had whitened and thinned. Her sun-browned hands, so capable of brewing elixirs, wielding spells, and comforting a small child, now clutched her blankets with claw-like fingers.

She gazed at Imogen, her eyes dull and dark with pain. “Imogen, get the locked box on the shelf,” she commanded in a harsh whisper.

Imogen caressed Niamh’s forehead with a gloved hand. “Your tea’s ready, Mother. That first.”

Niamh captured her hand in an unyielding clasp, and her eyes, dim just a moment before, glittered feverishly in the candle’s light. “Later. Now do what I say. Bring me the box.” Desperation lent strength to her voice.

Puzzled by Niamh’s sudden obsession with a forgotten box, Imogen gently pried her hand loose. “All right. Calm down. I’ll get the box. Then tea, yes?”

Exhausted by the small exertion, Niamh nodded weakly and plucked restlessly at her blankets. Imogen fluffed her pillows and eased her patient into a sitting position. She inhaled at the sight of small blood spots blossoming on the blanket covering Niamh’s thighs.

This was no woman’s monthly moon but another manifestation of the illness consuming Niamh from the inside. Last week her gums had started bleeding.

“Imogen.” Niamh’s eyes held a gallows’ humor. “You keep getting distracted. The box. Please.”

The item creating such a stir sat on the shelf near the frosted window, its lid coated in dust. Imogen lifted it from the shelf and wiped the surface with the hem of her shift, leaving a gritty smear on the delicate trim.

A plain container made of old oak, the box held no visual interest save a lock with no key. She returned to Niamh’s bedside and placed it in her trembling hands.

“I didn’t see a key on the shelf.”

“That’s because I’m the key.” Niamh's thin fingers traced the lock’s outline, and she murmured arcane words of spellwork.

Her whispers worked their magic. The lock clicked twice before springing open. Seeing Niamh didn’t need any help with the box, Imogen quickly lost interest and turned her attention to the kettle and cup waiting on the table.

Niamh’s pain was almost constant now and growing more severe by the day. Imogen had used up their supply of crushed valerian root and was fast working her way through the skullcap and St. John’s wort to make the teas Niamh consumed by the kettle full. She took little else, despite Imogen’s combined tactics of threats and coaxing to eat a little chicken broth.

“Ah, there it is! The key to unlock the greatest of gates.”