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Eirene glared at her. “That doesn’t matter.” She made a sharp gesture with her hands. “Cure my face. Do whatever you have to. The cost is unimportant.” She drew in a long breath. “So is the pain.” Her voice was brittle; Anna could hear the edges of the words like shards of glass grating together.

Anna’s mind raced over every possibility she could think of, every treatment, however radical—Christian, Jewish, or Arabic. Were any of them of use if the source of the illness was the fear in Eirene’s mind?

Anna’s imagination flew to the wounds she guessed at: the rejection of clever, ugly, vulnerable Eirene for the sensuous Zoe, who would laugh and enjoy, then leave, taking whatever she wanted and needing nothing. Was Gregory a man bored by what he could have and fascinated by what he could not? How shallow. How cruel. And yet how desperately understandable.

What was the point in healing the skin from outside, only to have it erupt again a day later?

“Don’t stand there like a fool!” Eirene snapped, twisting a little to look at her. “If you don’t know what to do, say so. I’ll call someone else. If you’re in poverty, for God’s sake take some money, but don’t stare at me as if you expected me to heal myself. What are you going to tell me? That I should pray? Do you think I haven’t prayed all my life, you stupid …” Suddenly she turned her face away, tears wet on her blemished cheeks.

“I am considering what remedies there are, and which would be best,” Anna said gently. Some form of intoxication would relieve the self-consciousness that prevented Eirene from allowing her passion or her anger to show and that had perhaps masked the laughter that could have made her less easy to read. It might even allow the sensuality that could have made her entertaining and just beyond Gregory’s total reach. It would be a short-term answer, but what use was a long-term cure if she perished of misery now?

“I will give you an ointment to take away the heat,” she said aloud.

“I don’t care what it feels like, you fool!” Eirene shouted at her. “Can you see nothing, you—”

“And the redness,” Anna finished calmly. Eirene needed her to understand, yet if she did, that would be intolerable also, another humiliation. “And an infusion to heal it from within, so it does not recur,” she added. “For the suppuration you will just have to wait. I will wash them with a tincture I have prepared, and put on light bandages to keep them from rubbing.”

Eirene looked taken aback, but she would not apologize. Physicians were like good servants; hardly equals. “Thank you,” she said awkwardly.

Anna fetched clean water from one of the servants and dropped in a small measure of liquid from a little vial. The sharp aroma filled the air, but it was pleasant, invigorating. She began to wash each individual sore, working gently and slowly. She intended to be here as long as possible.

Since the last time she had been here, Demetrios’s words had raced in her brain. It still seemed absurd, and she remembered his contempt with a heat of embarrassment. He had said the idea of usurping Michael was ridiculous. She knew that to succeed, one would have to overcome the Varangian Guard. Demetrios knew them, even had friends among them. It would not be possible. One would need to have the army with you. Antoninus was a soldier, he would know that. And the navy, and the merchants, which Justinian would know. His ever increasing business had been in such things.

One would need sound economic advice and access to the Treasury. Since then, Anna had learned that the lord of the Treasury was Eirene’s cousin Theodorus Doukas, and they were close. Some people had suggested that at least part of his brilliance was actually Eirene’s, her foresight, her genius with figures.

And what could the easy, charming Esaias Glabas do in such a plan? Was he cleverer than anyone supposed? And Helena? Was she a part of this plot or merely Bessarion’s wife?

“They are not as deep as I had feared,” Anna said, dabbing gently at one of the scars,