Salome's pain rose and fell again and again, becoming more severe, then less, throughout the afternoon and into the night.
She could not decide which was worse - the pain in her head, from which a hill seemed to have sprouted, or the itching beneath her fur, the urge to claw at herself when she could scarcely bear to move. But she could not huddle up and seek the comfort that slumber would offer; the commotion of moaning, clamoring voices, claws raking madly at underskin, and creaking beds was impossible for her to ignore or forget.
Sister Bethelle seemed to be everywhere at once, issuing orders to Chrysani, administering medicine for fevers and pain-lessening herbs, desperate to alleviate some of the symptoms of the illness, because she could not yet cure it, remonstrating with those patients who could not seem to keep their claws away from their fur.
"My dear, you must lie still." For the hundredth time, Sister Bethelle appeared at Salome's bedside. "You will cause bleeding."
Salome sank back into her pillow, feeling as if she was not up to the task of scratching herself or of speaking. Where speech was concerned, perhaps it was weakness that kept her silent, or perhaps it was the tightening of her throat, caused on by the tenderness in Sister Bethelle's voice and in her weary face.
"Please, just let me find Samuel . . . want t' find him."
Sister Bethelle shook her head, sad and exhausted, as she had many times before.
"You are in no state to move, little one; I've told you already. You will drive me to distraction. Try your best to sleep now; nothing else will help."
Salome realized that arguing would be futile.
"Aye, Miz Bethelle." She hesitated.
"Sorry I . . .got mad an' ran out without takin' th' physics . . .last time."
Sister Bethelle reached down to brush the tip of Salome's ear.
"Never mind that, little one; don't be a foolish child."
She said nothing more, as she turned away to attend to the other patients - but Salome read her eyes easily, and could see that Sister Bethelle felt that she had far more to apologize for.
As Sister Bethelle was now preoccupied, Marianne knelt at the head of Salome's bed.
"Yore brother will be all right, Salome," she whispered. "I'll get 'im up 'ere t'night - an' if he won't come, I'll take YOU t' 'im. But we'll 'ave t' wait a while."
Salome managed a wan smile.
She watched as the squirrelmaid rose to leave to the kitchen.
Yore brother will be all right, Salome. But where had Samuel gotten off to?
They had always shared close quarters in their days of living in the Woods - there were no rooms or partitioning walls, nor was there privacy, when one's dwelling place was in the base of a tree. Samuel, when upset or pensive, had been forced to retreat into his own mind, and this has always manifested in a stoic-faced silence, a silence that had troubled Salome more than anything else. Even shouting and loud, angry displays were preferable.
Perhaps he was in the chamber, with the door locked. Doubtless seasons of having been deprived of privacy had driven him to this - but God only knew what he did in there, and Salome did not know whether she wished to know.
Perhaps he was brooding silently - or seething. Could he be . . .weeping?
Perhaps he was not in the bedroom, but in Great Hall, staring up at the tapestry - though he'd voiced his contempt for its subject many times before.
What could be going through his mind now? Anger - with the Abbess for having demanded that he put himself in check and speak as she wanted him to? With Sister Jane, for having dared to read some riddle that she did not understand when he wanted cures? With Salome, even, for shouting about the dream that she had had? Salome's teeth clenched. Could she have sounded more daft if she had tried?
She was . . .she was bedridden, with a painful lump on her head and fleabites beneath her fur, and Samuel - well - once again, Samuel had to set it all to rights. And yet - he couldn't. She could die within weeks if Samuel could not set it to rights - if NOBEAST could set it to rights.
I'm goin' t' find him - say somethin' t' him - anythin', so long as it's nice - no stupid awkward things like wot I'd say before.
Her anger with herself faded, replaced by fear.
I mostly think of 'im as Big Brother - th' one wot 'as an 'eap of good sense, an' thinks when he gets mad instead o' playin' th' fool like I do. But is that all he's up to - thinkin'? S'pose he's goin' t' do somethin' wild an' angry an' mad - all 'cos of me?
The world moved around Salome, but she took no notice of anything that happened - the cry from Chrysani, Sister Bethelle's announcing that a mousemaid had died, or the complaints of joint pain from the creatures who lay nearby. She did not even realize, till she attempted to sit upright, determined to leave the infirmary, that her very vision was clouded - for a moment or two, she saw only strange spots of colored light, drifting across a background of darkness.
When her vision cleared, she found she was lying upon her right side, having failed to pull herself into a sitting position.
Gone was the mousemaid who had occupied the bed to the left of hers, and in her place lay a scrawny figure, hidden, for the most part, by several layers of bedclothes. Only its thickly-plumed grey tail, a pair of footpaws, the tips of its ears, and a pair of huge grey eyes were visible.
Salome strained her own eyes, though it hurt her head.
"Why, Muryet!"
The blankets shifted a fraction with the nodding of her head, and those dark eyes blinked, seeming to sparkle with a sort of wetness now.
Salome spoke tentatively. "You can . . .understand me . . .really understand, I mean? Yore not . . .still mad, I mean?"
Muryet's voice was quiet, tremulous. "I was never mad. I tell you that I saw Fainlie. You must believe me, Salome, daughter of Matt!"
Salome reached across the bed to clasp her paw.
"Did you see . . . Martin?"
"No. I saw only Fainlie - standing upon a pedestal with a weasel at her side. And creatures - vermin, prostrating at the foot of the pedestal, weeping, praying, groaning . . .oh, Salome, I'd never heard such a horrible commotion."
"Worshipped in captivity," Salome whispered. "Wot could they want with 'er?"
Muryet's claws sank themselves into Salome's paw. "What did you say? Tell me what you said! You know something. I know that you KNOW something!"
Salome gasped in pain, struggling to pull away.

"Muryet, stop it!" she hissed. "It was a dream - a dream from Martin! He said we'd find Fainlie, all right - an' she's bein' worshiped in captivity. Hush up, let me go! Likely you know more than I do!"
Muryet, realizing only now that she had lost control, released Salome, but it was too late. The disturbance had caught the attention of Sister Bethelle, despite Salome's efforts at keeping herself as well as Muryet quiet.
"Salome, for God's sake! Muryet has only just recovered, and you are bedridden yourself, but still you are making trouble for me! What do you mean by upsetting Muryet? She is unwell. Lie down, both of you, like good young maids, I beg of you." She massaged her head. "I'm not certain I can carry on with all of this. I am . . .tired."
Muryet caught Salome's eye, and heeded the wordless warning to be silent and unresistant.
Muryet, in her turn, caught the eye of Chrysani, who seemed to understand.
"You've a right to be tired, Sister Bethelle. You've been up since before dawn - you can't work through the night. Won't you rest? I can look after the sickbeasts."
The elderly squirrel sank to the edge of the nearest bed, shaking her head as she did so. "I couldn't, child. You are far too young and inexperienced to handle them alone - and besides, you've been up with the sun, too."
"Everybeast has been awake since morning - but everybeast needs sleep, and somebeast has got to take the night shift. Please, Sister Bethelle, lie down. I can handle it - I swear it."
Sister Bethelle hesitated for several long moments. Salome and Muryet waited, scarcely breathing.
"All right, my dear. Should you begin to feel too drowsy, wake me immediately."
With these words, she turned and departed from the infirmary, with the slowness of reluctance.
No sooner had the door shut behind her than Muryet sat upright, and, leaning across, took Salome's paws, pulling her up, as well.
"Gently, Muryet," Chrysani cautioned. "And you, Miss - er - Salome, don't wander about for very long. It would be no good for you. If you can get Master Samuel to come up here, YOU come back right away."
Salome managed to stand, though she still clung to Muryet for support. "But I want t' go an' see Sister Jane, too!"
Chrysani gestured towards an otter, who, with a knowing look in his eyes, was pushing a wheelchair out before him. "It's Salome, Brookleaf. Sit in this, Salome - Muryet, will you wheel her about? Salome, you might ask Sister Jane, but . . .well . . .it's likely it will take a while for her to find what we need, and I can't see the good in going to ask her about it when you know she will tell us when she's found it. You're not well - if anything happened, Sister Bethelle would slay us all!"
Salome lowered herself into the strange wheeled chair, and Muryet, stepping behind her, grasped the pushing bar resolutely.
"I will go to Sister Jane, and I will stay till she's found the cure. I'll tell her of my dream!"
Chrysani frowned. "Suppose Sister Jane won't take visitors?"
Salome allowed Muryet to wheel her out. "She's GOT to take visitors. I won't go away unless I drop senseless or learn somethin' - anything. G'night, Chrysani!"
Cheysani paled a little. It was worrying enough, to think of what Sister Bethelle would say when she woke to see that her infirmary pet had escaped and, most likely, would never willingly return to the sickbed. Now the ferretmaid who had been struck in the head and bitten all over by rat's fleas was headed for Sister Jane's library, and God only knew what they would get up to, or for how long. How foolish she had been, to play the accomplice, to supply that wheelchair!