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compressed her lips for a moment, trying to think calmly, trying to dredge up the memory of the remedies she used for fevers when dealing with the farm animals.
    â€˜I think,’ she said at last, ‘it might be a fistula.’ She glanced at Mrs Jones and saw with dismay that the woman was hanging on her every word.
    Patrick tugged at her skirt and began to cry. Almost gratefully, Fon looked down at him.
    â€˜I’ll take the boy home,’ she said quickly, ‘but I’ll pick up some remedies and be back in the morning to do whatever I can, I promise. Until then, try bathing his head with fresh water from the spring; it sometimes helps.’
    â€˜Bless you, Mrs O’Conner,’ Mrs Jones said gratefully. ‘There’s good of you, I can’t tell you how relieved I am. I’ve been that worried about my boy.’
    â€˜I can’t promise to cure him,’ Fon said quickly. ‘All I can do is try to bring down the fever and ease the pain. It’s not much, I’m afraid.’
    By the time Fon left the Joneses’ house, the sky had become streaked with evening light. The sun was dying in a blaze of colour, promising another fine day, and suddenly Fon realized that Jamie would be home from the fields wanting his supper.
    She thought quickly and decided that cold chicken pie and pickle would suffice for this evening’s meal. Jamie had a hearty appetite and never complained about the food she put before him.
    He was at the pump in the yard, stripped to the waist, cold water running over his broad shoulders and down his wide muscled body to his narrow hips. His dark hair was plastered around his head, and droplets of water still lay like diamonds of light among the dark curls.
    Love for him surged through Fon’s veins, and she realized with a heat in her cheeks that she was every bit as hot-blooded as her mother. How often had Fon blamed Nina for her lack of caution where men were concerned, and now here she was, Nina’s youngest, supposedly prim daughter, feeling the hot blood pound in her veins after only a few hours had passed since she had made love with her husband in the sweet grass of the fields.
    She hurriedly set the table, putting out the cutlery with precise movements, trying to think calmly about her remedies, for she knew Mrs Jones would not rest until Fon returned to see to her son.
    Jamie came into the kitchen, a big man, swinging through the low door, his frame filling it, blocking out the light from the rising moon.
    â€˜Tommy’s sick.’ Fon placed the food on the table, thick slices of fresh crusty bread and a pat of salt butter standing alongside the plate of pie and the dish of pickle. She knew she was excusing her failure to make her husband a proper meal.
    â€˜I said I’d go back over there tomorrow and see what I could do for him.’ She sank into a chair and stared across the table at Jamie, waiting for him to speak. He forked some pie into his mouth and stared at her, waiting for her to continue.
    â€˜I don’t know enough to be any real help, Jamie, but Mrs Jones seems to have such faith in me.’
    â€˜Then you must not let her down’ – he smiled warmly – ‘and I’m sure you won’t. What is it?’ Jamie leaned across the table to help his son by slicing the chicken pie, cutting it into smaller, more manageable pieces.
    â€˜Some kind of inflamed fistula,’ Fon said slowly. ‘At least I think that’s what it is.’
    Jamie frowned. ‘What makes you think that?’ He wiped his son’s mouth and helped him down from the chair, patting the boy’s plump rear with a large, tender hand. ‘Go play for a minute, give your father a chance to fill his belly.’
    â€˜The skin is red and angry,’ Fon said. ‘Swollen too. Tommy looks real bad.’
    â€˜Bit of thistle might do the trick,’ Jamie said. ‘Why don’t you look it up in that