SHIRLEY, NEW YORK
Laura couldn’t resist any longer. She had the chopped romaine in the colander and some finely sliced Parmesan ready for the Caesar salad; she’d debated making the dressing from scratch but opted for bottled when she found some in the pantry. She had a couple of New York strips marinating. She’d dragoon Rick into grilling those. Which left her with not much else to do.
And idle hands …
She pulled the box from the top shelf, parted the bubble wrap, and removed the crimson snuff bottle. She wondered what the symbol meant, if anything. She’d seen snuff bottles in Chinatown, but they were usually much more ornate. This one seemed merely functional, and didn’t contain snuff.
The ikhar sloshed within as she reread Clotilde’s note.
Let the All-Mother guide you.
The All-Mother … Clotilde’s Gaia-type goddess. Her pagan cult had been brewing the ikhar since the sixth century and doling out the curative tea to the lucky few designated by their deity. Curative was an understatement—the tea was the legendary panacea, able to cure every ill. But they kept its existence on the down-low because their goddess wished to be niggardly with it, dosing only those she deemed worthy of healing.
Clotilde had never explained just how the sylyk, as they called their healers, recognized the chosen recipients. Laura suspected each sylyk made his or her own choice and attributed it to the All-Mother. Whatever. She could see how leaving it to the goddess lightened the hellacious burden of deciding who got well and who stayed sick.
When she had asked why Clotilde was designating her a sylyk, she’d said Laura had “the soul of a healer” and that the All-Mother “smiles on you.” Again, whatever. She didn’t believe in the All-Mother any more than she believed in hobbits and elves.
However, she had no choice but to believe in the ikhar.
Educated in the scientific method, Laura had vigorously resisted the possibility of a cure-all. But finally she’d come to accept its existence. What other option did she have? She’d seen it bring her own daughter back from the brink of death. Stahlman’s pulmonary fibrosis—a terminal diagnosis—had cleared overnight. The scientist part of her demanded to know its method of action, but the ikhar had resisted all analysis. Finally she’d raised a white flag of intellectual surrender and simply gone with it.
As for choosing who would get this dose, Laura wasn’t about to wait for the All-Mother. The ikhar was a miracle waiting to happen, so she’d decided to choose her recipients carefully. After weeks of careful consideration, she’d settled on James Fife. She’d harbored a deep, personal reason for gravitating toward Fife, but he hadn’t worked out. She had other possibilities, though. Hopeless cases, nearing the end of their ordeals. But they had to be worthy.
A couple of weeks ago she’d found the perfect candidate at the VA Medical Center in Northport: Emilie Lantz met the criteria of hopelessness and worthiness—in spades.
She squeezed the snuff bottle. Less than an hour’s ride to the medical center. If she left right now …
No, if she hit traffic in either direction she wouldn’t be here when Marissa came home, and that wouldn’t do at all. Besides, tomorrow was her usual volunteer day. They’d notice her, ask why she’d shown up on a Tuesday instead of her customary Wednesday. And then if Emilie woke up tomorrow fully cured, they’d remember.
If … Listen to me. If Emilie woke up tomorrow fully cured …
Despite the testament of her own experience, part of her—a big part of her—still resisted the ikhar, still refused to believe any such thing could exist.
But if Emilie woke up cured, someone might well say, Hey, that Laura Fanning volunteer showed up unexpectedly yesterday. Didn’t her daughter have a miracle-cure too? What’s up with that?
She had to be careful, so very, very careful. People had died horribly for dispensing the ikhar. Rick and Stahlman already knew about it, of course—they were in on the discovery—but she’d told no one else.
She’d wait until tomorrow. That meant another day of misery for Emilie. She felt bad about that, but it couldn’t be helped.
Laura replaced the snuff bottle in the box and returned it to the upper shelf.