Katherine and Thomas are confined to the chamber of the guerite, and must take turns sitting up with the boy. She sniffs the wound almost hourly and removes the dressing every day to tease the dribbling wick from the sutured skin in tiny increments, letting the wound heal behind it. The boy is in pain all the time, delirious with it, screeching with it, writhing with it, and there is nothing they can do except hold him down, stop him wrenching at the dressing, and try to force some of Sir Ralph’s spirit into him. If they can get enough of it down, it seems to place him somewhere between life and death. ‘Is he in purgatory?’ Jack whispers. And Katherine places a hand on the boy’s neck to feel something, then shakes her head. ‘Not yet,’ she says. Jack is still with them, and she has been surprised to find she does not mind, or fear his company as much as she’d think. He has even been protective of them, sending others away, including one man who wanted her to come with him to cure his brother who has leprosy.
