Three weeks after Greaves left, the old farmer came back.
His name was Garrett — the same Garrett whose wheat Elara had told me about. He limped into Father's study on a Tuesday morning, and his knee was worse.
"The cold's been bad this year, Saint Aldric. Swelling won't go down even with rest."
Father examined him, healed the acute inflammation again, and gave the same advice as before — rest, come back next week. Garrett left with relief on his face and resignation in his eyes. He knew the cycle. Heal, rest, relapse. Heal, rest, relapse.
I'd been thinking about this for months. The theory was solid. The approach was clear. But executing it meant revealing knowledge I shouldn't have.
Unless I was clever about it.
That evening, I approached Father in his study.
"Father, I had a question about healing."
He looked up from his paperwork, and his expression softened the way it always did when one of his children showed interest in his work. "Of course, Lucien. What is it?"
"When you heal Mr. Garrett's knee, you fix the swelling. But the swelling comes back because the joint is damaged, right?"
"That's right. The underlying cartilage degradation requires Fifth Circle restoration — beyond my ability."
"But what if you didn't try to fix the cartilage? What if you just stopped the swelling from coming back?"
He tilted his head. "What do you mean?"
I'd rehearsed this. The key was to make it sound like childish intuition rather than applied medical science.
"Well... when I scraped my knee last month, you healed the cut. But Mother also put salve on it afterward and told me not to run for a few days. The healing fixed the damage, but the salve and the rest stopped it from getting worse again."
"Yes..."
"So what if you healed Mr. Garrett's swelling AND gave him something to stop the swelling from starting again? Like a salve but for inside his knee?"
Father was quiet. Thinking. I could see the idea taking root — not as revolutionary science, but as a practical suggestion from a child who'd made an unexpectedly logical connection.
"An anti-inflammatory compound applied in conjunction with healing," he murmured. "It's not... it's actually not a bad idea. The healing would open the tissue to absorption, and a sustained compound could..."
He trailed off, staring at nothing, the way he did when he was working through a problem.
"Lucien, where did you learn the word 'inflammatory'?"
Crap.
"Your textbook. The one on the second shelf. Chapter eight."
He glanced at the shelf. Chapter eight of Foundations of Sanctus Healing was indeed about inflammatory responses. He'd apparently forgotten that his seven-year-old had read it.
"I... suppose you did read that." He shook his head slightly. "Your mother's right. You're unusual."
"Is that bad?"
"No." He smiled. "It's wonderful. And your idea has merit. I'd need to consult with an herbalist about the right compound. Something with anti-inflammatory properties that could be enhanced by a brief healing application..."
"Silverroot and emberthorn," I said. "Silverroot reduces swelling, emberthorn promotes blood flow to help the joint heal naturally. If you used a small healing prayer — not a full Fourth Circle treatment, just a little one — to help the body absorb the compound better, it might break the cycle."
Total silence.
Father stared at me.
I realized I'd gone too far. The specificity, the compound knowledge, the therapeutic framework — that wasn't a seven-year-old connecting dots from a textbook. That was a structured treatment protocol.
"I talked to the herbalist at the market," I added quickly. "Greta. She told me about silverroot and emberthorn. I just... thought about how they might work with your healing."
Father's expression was unreadable. Not suspicious — thoughtful. Deep, serious thoughtfulness.
"Greta," he said slowly. "I know her. She's knowledgeable."
"She says hello, by the way. And that you're scatterbrained."
He almost smiled. "That sounds like Greta."
He was quiet for another moment, then stood and pulled a book from his shelf — not the textbook, but a smaller volume. Practical Herbalism for Clergy.
"Silverroot and emberthorn," he murmured, flipping pages. "Combined with targeted low-intensity healing as a catalyst rather than a cure... Lucien, this could actually work."
"Really?"
"I need to test it carefully. Dosage, preparation method, interaction with Sanctus energy — there are variables to consider. But the underlying logic is sound."
He looked at me again. That look. The one Mother gave me too, sometimes — seeing something in their child that didn't quite fit, that was too much, that they couldn't explain.
"Thank you, Lucien," he said softly.
"For what?"
"For paying attention."
Father spent the next week developing the treatment. He consulted with Greta — the old herbalist from the market — and they collaborated with the slightly awkward formality of two professionals from different traditions acknowledging each other's expertise for the first time.
The compound was simple: silverroot paste with emberthorn extract, prepared with wintermint oil as a carrier. Applied topically and then enhanced with a brief, targeted First Circle healing prayer — not to fix the damage, but to open the tissue and accelerate absorption.
Garrett was the first patient.
I wasn't allowed in the room for the treatment (Mother drew the line at children observing medical procedures), but I waited outside Father's study with the desperate energy of a PhD student waiting for experimental results.
Garrett came out forty-five minutes later. Walking without a limp.
"Saint Aldric," he said, and his voice was rough. "I don't know what you did differently, but my knee hasn't felt this good in ten years."
Father stood in the doorway behind him. He caught my eye.
And he smiled.