magistrate appealed to be gaining strength, it was yet wise not to pressure his health with the disastrous news.
When the dose had been swallowed and Woodward settled again to await the oncoming of precious sleep, Matthew followed Dr. Shields out into the hallway and closed the magistrate's door.
'Tell me, ' Matthew said in a guarded tone. 'Your best and honest opinion: When will the magistrate be able to travel?'
'He does improve daily.' Shields's spectacles had slipped down his beak, and he pushed them up again. 'I am very pleased with his response to the tonic. If all goes well... I would say two weeks.'
'What do you mean, 'if all goes well'? He's out of danger, isn't he?'
'His condition was very serious. Life-threatening, as you well know. To say he's out of danger is an oversimplification.'
'I thought you were so pleased with his response to the tonic.'
'I am, ' Shields said forcefully. 'But I must tell you something about that tonic. I created it myself from what I had at hand. I purposefully strengthened it as much as I dared, to encourage the body to increase its blood flow and thereby—'
'Yes, yes, ' Matthew interrupted. 'I know all that about the stagnant blood. What of the tonic?'
'It is... how shall I say this... an extreme experiment. I've never before administered that exact mixture, in so powerful a dosage.'
Matthew had an inkling now of what the doctor was getting at. He said, 'Go on.'
'The tonic was mixed strong enough to make him feel better. To lessen his pain. To... reawaken his natural healing processes.'
'In other words, ' Matthew said, 'it's a powerful narcotic that gives him the illusion of well-being?'
'The word powerful is... uh... an understatement, I fear. The correct term might be Herculean.'
'Then without this tonic he would regress to the state he was in before?'
'I can't say. I do know for certain that his fever is much reduced and his breathing greatly freed. The condition of his throat has also improved. So: I have done what you required of me, young man. I have brought the magistrate back from death's door... at the penalty of his being dependent on the tonic.'
'Which means, ' Matthew said grimly, 'that the magistrate is also dependent on the tonic's maker. Just in case I might wish to pursue you in the future for the murder of Nicholas Paine.'
Shields flinched at this, and pressed a finger to his mouth to request that Matthew regulate his volume. 'No, you're wrong, ' he said. 'I swear it. That had nothing to do with my mixing the tonic. As I said, I used what was at hand, in a strength I judged sufficient for the task. And as for Paine... if you'd please not mention him again to me? In fact, I demand you do not.'
Matthew had seen what might have been a blade-twist of agony in the doctor's eyes, a fleeting thing that had been pushed down as quickly as it had appeared. 'All right, then, ' he said. 'What's to be done?'
'I am planning, after the execution, to begin watering the dosage. There will still be three cups a day, but one of them will be half strength. Then, if all goes well, we shall cut a second cup to half strength. Isaac is a strong man, with a strong constitution. I am hopeful his body will continue to improve by its own processes.'
'You're not going back to the lancet and blister cups, are you?'
'No, we have crossed those bridges.'
'What about taking him to Charles Town? Could he stand the trip?'
'Possibly. Possibly not. I can't say.'
'Nothing more can be done for him?'
'Nothing, ' Shields said. 'It is up to him... and to God. But he does feel better and he does breathe easier. He can communicate, and he is comfortable. These days... with the medicines I have on hand... I would say that is a miracle of sorts.'
'Yes, ' Matthew said. 'I agree, of course. I... didn't wish to sound ungrateful for what you've done. I believe that under the circumstances you've performed with admirable skill.'
'Thank you, sir. Perhaps in this case there was more luck involved than skill... but I have done my best.'
Matthew nodded. 'Oh... have you finished your examination of Linch's body?'
'I have. I calculate from the thickness of blood that he had been dead some five to seven hours before discovery. His throat wound was the most glaring, but he was also stabbed twice in the back. It was a downward thrust, both stabs piercing his lung on the right side.'
'So he was stabbed by someone standing behind and over him?'
'It would appear so. Then I believe his head was pulled backward and the throat wound administered.'
'He must have been sitting at his desk, ' Matthew said. 'Talking to whoever killed him. Then, when he lay dying on the floor, the slash marks were applied.'
'Yes, by Satan's claws. Or by the claws of some unknown demon.'
Matthew was not going to argue the matter with Dr. Shields. Instead, he changed the subject. 'And what of Mr. Bidwell? Has he recovered?'
'Sadly, no. He sits at the tavern with Winston as we speak, getting drunker than I've ever seen him. I can't blame him. Everything is crumbling around him, and with more witches yet to be identified... the town will soon be empty. I slept last night—the little I did sleep—with a Bible at both ends of my bed and a dagger in my hand.'
Matthew's thought was that Shields could use a lancet with far deadlier effect than a dagger. 'You needn't fear. The damage has been done, and there's no need for the fox now to do anything but wait.'
'The fox? Satan, you mean?'
'I mean what I said. Pardon me, doctor. I have some things to tend to.'
'Certainly. I shall see you later this evening.'
Matthew retired to his room. He drank a cup of water and picked up the ebony-wood compass he'd found in Paine's house early this morning. It was a splendid instrument, the size of his palm, with a blued steel needle on a printed paper card indicating the degrees of direction. He'd realized the compass was a prime example of the process of magnetism, the needle having been magnetized—by a method he didn't fully understand—so as to point north.
Matthew had made other discoveries in Paine's bloodless house, not including the body-sized area of floorboards that had been pulled up and then hastily laid down again underneath the pallet. A brown cotton bag with a shoulder strap served to hold his other finds: a knife with a seven-inch-long blade and an ivory handle; a buckskin bladesheath and waistbelt; and a pair of knee-high boots that could be made useable by an inch of padding at the toes. He also found Paine's pistol and the wheel-lock spanner, but as he knew absolutely nothing about loading, preparing, and firing the temperamental weapon, its use would probably result in his shooting himself in the head.
Matthew had much to do, now that he'd decided.
Near midday, his decision—which up until that point had been wavering—was made solid. He had walked to the execution field and actually gone fight up to the pyre and the stake. He'd stood there imagining the horror of it, yet his imagination was not so deranged as to permit him a full and complete picture. He could not save Fount Royal, but at least he might cheat the fox of Rachel's life.
It was possible, and he was going to do it.
He had been on his way to the gaol, to inform Rachel, when his steps had slowed. Of course she needed to know beforehand... or did she? If his resolve failed tonight, should she be waiting in the dark for a champion who never arrived? If he tried with all his intelligence and might and could not get the key from Green, should Rachel be waiting, hopeful of freedom?
No. He would spare her that torment. He had turned away from the gaol, long before he'd reached its door.
Now, in his room, Matthew sat down in his chair with the document box. He opened it and arranged before him three clean sheets of paper, a quill, and the inkpot.
He spent a moment arranging his thoughts as well. Then he began writing.
