The Lost - J. D. Robb [104]
“Nonsense. Fresh water is too precious here. The wound is clean.”
“Esmé—” Isabelle began.
The healer cut her off with a look of pure hatred. “I have been cleaning wounds longer than you have been alive. Leave now. You are not welcome here.”
To argue would only upset everyone so Isabelle did as ordered, determined to visit the family later to see if she could convince them to let her treat the boy further. Really the wound should be treated in a sterile environment. In a hospital.
Back in her cottage Isabelle considered the paperwork that was part of any bureaucracy no matter how remote. Her funding hinged on filling out the forms, and she tackled the project even though she was distracted by her worry for the boy. Occasionally she found herself staring off into space with a sappy smile. The smile had nothing to do with her concern for Herreo.
Mother Superior had always insisted that God’s will was for each man and woman to be happy and fulfilled. Well, if that was true, then Isabelle knew she was on the right path, no matter what Esmé said. Her journey was not complete, but from where she sat, even surrounded by annoying forms, she was sure she was headed in the right direction.
After wrestling with the paperwork for most of the afternoon, Isabelle put it away, freshened up and walked to the edge of the village to see the boy. The family welcomed her. Fortunately, they were some of the early adapters you could find in every culture, the kind of natural leaders who were receptive to new ideas.
Herreo was in his bunk, a cup of juice at hand and the healer’s salve nearby. Isabelle raised the bed linen to look at the wound and felt physically ill. Esmé had stitched it closed, not the right course of action for a “dirty” cut.
“What do you think, Mistress Nurse?” Herreo’s mother asked.
“Please let me cut the stitches open. The wound should be cleaned. Please, Mistress Mother.”
Herreo’s mother looked at her husband.
“If you do not allow it,” Isabelle spoke quietly so Herreo would not hear, “the wound will become infected. Even now he should go to the hospital to have it treated properly.”
“If he goes to the main island, he will not come back,” his mother said.
“I think he will come back. He is young and he wants his mother and father more than he wants the pleasures of the main island.” Isabelle looked at Herreo’s father. “Would you rather have him die here or live there?”
“He can go if the master gives permission.” Esmé made her announcement from the door of the cottage. “Go ask him now.”
“Have you been watching me?” Isabelle did not care if her outrage showed.
“Don’t flatter yourself. I was coming to tell you that the master wants to speak with you and saw you walking here.”
“All right.” She calmed a little. “I’ll go ask him but let me cut the stitches open first.”
“No. Go to the master.”
It was the worst of medical protocol to argue in front of the patient’s parents, so Isabelle hurried to the castle wondering why Sebastian would send his message through Esmé when he usually used Cortez as a courier.
At the castillo, the servant was welcoming, but when she asked for Sebastian, the man shook his head. “He is busy now, mistress. You can sing, but he is busy.”
“I have to see him. Right now. This is an emergency.”
“An emergency?” the man said as though he did not know the word.
“Someone might die if I do not speak to him quickly.” That was a lie. It would be days before Herreo’s injury was life-threatening. She would ask forgiveness for her dishonesty later.
With a troubled nod, the servant let her in and, despite his urging that he would “bring the master down,” Isabelle ran to the steps and up to Sebastian’s quarters.
She knocked on the door of his study and waited. No one answered. She opened the door and called, “Sebastian. Where are you? This is important.”
He came then, from his bedroom, barefoot, his shirt open, his pants unbuttoned, as though he was about to undress. “What is so pressing that you have to interrupt me?”
He could have slapped her with less insult. For, as he