If he could just . . . he unwound his tartan from around his shoulder, and tied a loop at the end. Then balancing precariously, he managed to swing the end, catching it, using his tartan to pull himself upwards. Swinging his feet up to the sill of the window, he retrieved his tartan and put it back into place. Then pulling his gemstone dagger from his side, he stepped into the room lit by only one small candle. He heard voices in the corridor, and then his heart almost stopped as someone knocked on the door. “Healer,” he heard a woman’s voice from just outside. “You are needed in the earl’s chamber at once.” Then another knock. “Healer, are you in there?” He looked around the room, realizing the healer was nowhere to be found. But he saw his bag of herbs and ointments lying on the bed, as well as his long, black cloak and the bird mask stuffed full of dried posies and herbs that was worn by all healers when coming in contact with the plague.
