[Lasbelinion]

He bristled as Mistress Bunce pushed the pot of salve toward him. The urge to push her away rose like bile in his throat, immediate and burning and bitter. Her words touched him before the cool side of the pot brushed lightly against his finger tips. He forced down the words that were already forming on his lips. Dipping his head down as if to inspect the salve, he swallowed them one by one.

She bears a certain light, he thought. Should I speak without thinking, the tenuous line between us will snap.

Lithmîrë drew his thoughts inward, considering that connection. It was not a familiar one. And being unfamiliar it did not call up the bristling defenses he had so long cultivated. Still, it was troubling in its unexpectedness. He turned his attention fully to that little link, probing and pushing at it as one might a sore tooth with the tongue . . . looking for any darker motives he might discern.

Her words seemed to be winding down now. They held a tone of regret. She had asked a question, and looked to him to see if she had been too forward with it. With an effort he recalled what she had said. Poppy, she had asked about poppy.

‘Yes, I have used that at times,’ he heard himself answering her, His voice level. ‘But not often. It dulls the pain, but clouds my mind, too. It leaves me too . . .’ defenseless he was going to say . . . ‘too tired and feeling weak.’

He dipped his fingers into the salve and brought a small smear to his nose. It had a light, clean smell. and as he rubbed it on a small portion of the scarring on his arm, he could feel a certain cool comfort spread out in the ropy, tight tissue.

'This will be good, I think,' he said, the curve of a quick smile fleeting on the right side of his face. 'It will go well with the tea I've put together.' He put the cover on the pot, saying he would use it more fully later. 'And I was wondering, my store of herbs for that tea is nearly depleted. Would it be possible for me to replenish them from your garden?'