Klara knelt beside the low stool where Yvonne sat, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as though she feared they might betray her. The physician had just finished his work: a clean linen bandage called a "clout" now wrapped snugly around Yvonne's throat, the faint scent of yarrow and honey rising from the poultice beneath it. He had spoken little, only murmuring the expected cautions in careful Spanish before bowing low.
"Change the clout each morn and eve, Your Majesty," he had said, voice soft with the deference of a man who had seen too many royal tempers. "Keep it dry, no water, no steam from the bath. I shall return tomorrow to inspect it and apply fresh salve. Should the wound fever or the skin blacken, summon me at once."
He had bowed again, deep, almost to the floor and backed out of the chamber without ever quite meeting her eyes.
Now the door was closed, the candles guttered low, and only Klara remained.
Klara's voice trembled when she finally spoke.
