“He’s never coming back,” she said.
“Who—oh. Stammel.” Who had died far away in the South.
“He had friends here,” Kolya said. “We would have helped—”
“And he chose to go—and did not say a word to you.” Arcolin had known that she and Stammel were friends, but … had they been more? He tried to think back to the days before her injury and retirement or even the years she had lived in Duke’s East.
“No. I hoped he … but he didn’t. And now he’s gone.”
“You have friends here,” Arcolin said. “And away, as well. Your Kuakgan, who sends you apples.”
“The trees are old enough now,” Kolya said. “And I have trained others to trim them. They don’t need me.”
That sounded ominous. Arcolin had seen sick people give up before; fighting a fever could be exhausting. But Kolya had always been a fighter. Was all this about Stammel, or was there something else? He went into the back room and found a hotpot, now cold, with a meal the mayor’s wife must have brought the day before. A loaf of bread with one slice cut off was wrapped in a cloth next to an overturned bowl—he lifted it. A mound of butter on a plate. Bread knife, spoons, and small bowls lay nearby. He found a tray, loaded all this onto it, and carried it back into the front room. He set the hotpot in the fire and set about slicing bread.
“I’m not hungry,” Kolya said.
“I am,” Arcolin said. The little iron pot heated quickly; he stirred the stew of meat, barley, onions, and redroots as it warmed and put slices of bread into the toasting rack that sat near the hearth. The smell of toasted bread mingled with that of the stew; he buttered the toast and set it near Kolya. “And you aren’t drinking enough. Finish your sib.”
“I … I’ll need to go—” She moved her head to the side.
“I’ll help.” Before she could protest, he had an arm behind her back, helping her up. She paled; he held her upright until she could stand on her own, then helped her to the jacks in the back of the cottage, wishing he’d thought to light the brazier there beforehand. The small room was as cold as outdoors. He left her there and went to get a small shovel of coals for the brazier.
Once reinstalled in the chair, wrapped again in shawls and blankets, she seemed a little more comfortable. Arcolin urged her to drink the rest of the sib, then poured water for her and handed her a slice of buttered toast.
“I’m not really—”
“You need food,” he said firmly, the voice of captain to soldier, and she ate, though slowly. He put a little stew in the bowl for her and took more for himself, carrying another chair across the room from the table. She ate one spoonful, then another.
“She’s a good cook,” Kolya said. “I just … I didn’t feel like eating.”
“A bad storm … and being sick …”
“She brought wood, too, for the fire.”
“Good,” Arcolin said. He watched as she ate several spoonfuls more. Then he said, “You’re on the village council, Kolya. You’re important to us. I think you should have someone here until you’re well again.”
“I don’t want to trouble anyone—”
“It’s my responsibility. If you were still active in the Company, I wouldn’t leave you alone when you’re sick. Same with this.”
She nodded slowly. “I didn’t want to ask the mayor—”
She and the mayor got along well enough these days but had never been friends.
Just then a knock came at the door. “Kolya?”
“That’s Seri,” Kolya said.
“Good,” Arcolin said. He went to the door. Fontaine’s wife nodded to him. She had another hotpot, wrapped in cloths, in a basket, and behind her was a girl with an armload of folded linens.
“My lord,” she said. “I’m glad you’re here.” Arcolin stepped back, and she bustled in. “Kolya—glad to see you’re eating, m’dear. We were that worried yesterday, but we couldn’t get out.” She turned back to Arcolin. “My lord, it’s to my mind Kolya should not be here alone. Now, our house has room—it’s only having the lads share a bed—and if the weather turns bad again, no worry that someone can’t come and check on her.”
“I don’t want—” Kolya began, but Arcolin looked at her and she fell silent.
“I think that’s most generous,” Arcolin said. “I was thinking of hiring someone to stay here with her—an older girl, perhaps—”
“I could, Ma,” Fontaine’s daughter said. “Then the Councilwoman wouldn’t have to move—though if she wanted, she could have my room.”