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and torso so that Prisca could wipe his back, but it sent the old man into a fit of coughing.
    â€œThe draught, Makarria!” her mother yelled.
    â€œComing,” Makarria said, checking the kettle. The water level was so low now she couldn’t see if it was boiling or not. Without thinking, she stuck her finger inside to test the water and withdrew it with a sudden yelp, nearly knocking the kettle from the stove in the process. “Merda!” she silently swore, echoing her grandfather’s favorite curse and sticking the pulsating finger into her mouth. Think before you act, you daft girl. She grabbed up the kettle handle with her other hand and filled the stein with steaming hot water. The pungent smell of anise filled her nostrils. She grabbed a dried honey-bead from one of the muslin sacks and tossed it in the stein where it instantly melted.
    â€œMakarria!” Prisca yelled again.
    â€œHere,” Makarria said, rushing to her parents’ side and handing off the stein to her mother.
    Galen still held Parmo up in a sitting position from behind and now grabbed the old man’s jaw with one hand to lean his head back and hold it steady. Prisca moved the stein to Parmo’s lips and tilted it, forcing him to drink. Parmo sputtered at first on the hot liquid but then began swallowing as Prisca continued to pour it into his gullet. Most of the draught spilled down his chin and onto his bare chest but enough went down, and when Prisca pulled the empty stein away and wiped Parmo clean with the washcloth, his breathing seemed to slow and become more regular.
    â€œIs he going to be alright?” Makarria asked, wedging herself forward between her parents to see if Parmo was opening his eyes.
    â€œGet back!” Prisca yelled.
    â€œI want to help.”
    â€œYou’ve done enough, Makarria. He’s sick because of you.”
    Makarria was dumbstruck and she staggered back. Her fault? What had she done?
    â€œJust go,” her mother said, regretting what she had said but still terse. “Outside and let us tend to him.”
    â€œIt’s alright. Go on, Makarria,” her father said, and Makarria turned and fled outside.
    The sun had burned through the cloud cover low in the sky to the west, and the blustering winds of midday had subsided into a gentle breeze. Makarria was laying on one of the large rocks that comprised the little jetty she and her grandfather had built to shelter their skiff from the relentless ocean surf. She was just lying there and letting the waves wash over her outstretched hand to soothe her burned finger. From the corner of her eye she saw her father walk down from the house, but she ignored him, even when he sat on a rock beside her.
    â€œMakarria,” he said, but he didn’t know where to start. He had convinced Prisca the night before to not yet tell Makarria about her ability. There was still a chance she might grow out of it, and he was certain Parmo had overstated the danger of the Emperor. They were hundreds of miles away from Col Sargoth and Makarria was just a girl after all. What danger did she pose to the mightiest man in the Five Kingdoms, even if she could turn tunics to gowns? Isolated as they were here on the peninsula, she wasn’t a danger to anyone but her own family. Galen couldn’t bring himself to tell her that though. She was still his little girl, and he wanted her to enjoy the innocence of her childhood while she could.
    â€œYour mother didn’t mean to yell at you,” he finally said. “It’s not your fault that Grampy is sick.”
    â€œIs he alright?” Makarria asked.
    â€œI don’t know, Makarria. He hasn’t woken up yet. Your grandfather is getting very old, you know? There’s a chance, he…”
    â€œNo, he’s not going to die,” Makarria insisted. “He’s not too old.”
    â€œI hope you’re right. I really do. Do you want to come and see