He heard a footstep on the other side of the bed. He turned, bringing back the ache in his head full force, to see the tall figure of Reverend Philip Hale standing in the doorway of the small room. Hale, dressed in a black clawhammer coat and black trousers with a white silk stock wrapped around his throat, stood with his arms folded, gazing at Auguste with pursed lips and a deep crease between his bushy eyebrows.
"You can thank the Lord's mercy you're not hurt worse, young man. I suppose you'll want to be on your way soon."
"Father!" Nancy exclaimed. "He just came awake. He might have a fractured skull."
"I think I'm all right," Auguste said. He tried to sit up again. He managed it, but he felt suddenly dizzy and sick to his stomach. He put his hand over his mouth. Nancy picked up a china chamber pot from the bedside and held it for him, but after a moment the spasm of nausea passed and, gingerly, he shook his head at her. His first afternoon at Victoire, when he had thrown up his dinner before everyone in the great hall, flickered through his memory.
He looked up and saw Hale staring at him with even deeper distaste. Clear enough that the reverend didn't like to see Nancy's care for him.
Grandpapa's hurt, and I'm the only one around here with medical training.
Auguste lifted his head again, determined to get up in spite of the pain. "I must go to my grandfather. He may die if he isn't cared for properly."
A spear of horror shot through him. His medicine bundle, containing his precious stones and the bear's claw, was still at the château. All his spiritual power was collected in that bag. Whatever the risk, he must go back and get it. And he wanted the bag of surgical instruments he'd brought back from New York.
"I'll be out of here as soon as I can stand, sir," he said. "I have much to do."
"No!" Nancy cried. "Auguste, you're not well enough to go anywhere. And, Father, I told you what happened at the funeral. We've got to help Auguste. If you speak, people will listen."