Before he could speak, a young boy trotted up onto the porch with a basket in each hand. “Healer, Mama sent cookies.”
“Enzo.” Donal grinned and accepted a basket. “I love cookies. Tell her thank you.”
The boy turned to Margery, and his brow crinkled with worry. He whispered to Donal, “Is she the banfasa?”
“She is.”
With an adorable grin—and familiar big brown eyes—Enzo deposited the other basket in her lap. “Mama says thank you.”
Before she could respond, the boy jumped off the porch, not bothering to use the steps, and headed down the street at a speedy run.
She stared after him. “Is he, perhaps, a littermate to Jonty, cub of Lottie?”
“Very good.” Donal took the other chair and investigated his gift. “Oatmeal cookies. My favorite.”
Cookies. Mouth watering, Margery pulled away the pretty cloth napkin covering her basket and stared. “I have lots of cookies.”
Picking up the note, she read the careful writing.
“By the Law of Reciprocity, you were owed for my poor behavior. The cookies are sent in balance—and with gratitude for the way you eased a cubling’s pain and a mother’s worry. Thank you, banfasa.”
As Margery’s eyes stung with tears, Donal plucked the note from her hand.
“Ah, good. Lottie is a fine female. We all mourned her cub.” He handed the note back and leaned over to check her basket. “A variety, eh? Once she knows what you like, you’ll get those instead.”
Margery nibbled on a peanut butter cookie. Yum. “You, healer, are a tad spoiled.”
He chuckled. “I’m very spoiled, aye.”
She studied him as he leaned back and rested his long, lean legs on the railing. During the healing, he’d worn his hair tied severely back in a leather band. Now the black waves covered his blue flannel shirt to mid-chest. He looked younger, closer to her age.
Although his head was back as he soaked up the late afternoon sun, the sharp edge to him hadn’t disappeared. He seemed very much the feline who could purr…and then slash a person to shreds.
But he’d wanted to talk. This was her chance to ask questions. “As a child, I heard stories of healers. But you don’t match my mental image of them.”
Without opening his eyes, he smiled slightly. “Mother was a very conservative healer. And my attire and attitude began as typical adolescent defiance. But I discovered I’m far more comfortable in flannel shirts and jeans than in a suit.”
Huh. “My grandmother wore calf-length denim dresses, partly because the material was strong enough to let her keep supplies in her pockets. But I hate skirts.”
“It’s good to examine what we unthinkingly absorb from our teachers and to decide what we wish to retain.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Your grandmother was a banfasa?”
“Yes. Dogwood didn’t have a healer. Everyone went to her, and from the time I could walk, I helped her every day.” Margery set her basket down and sipped her lemonade.
“I know how that goes. My mother yanked me into her clinic the minute I showed power. There’s nothing like starting early.” Donal pinned her with a keen look. “Did you tend to your villagers in the Scythe compound?”
“As much as I was allowed.” The Scythe. Appetite gone, she set her cookie back in the basket. “Their nurse practitioner got permission from the Director to use me as her assistant. We cared for shifters and humans.”
“You picked up human techniques then. Did you use any when you were the banfasa in Ailill Ridge?”
The muscles tightened in Margery’s jaw. The conversation had certainly taken a downward turn. The Scythe, then Ailill Ridge. But the healer was right to ask the questions. “Humans do have useful equipment and supplies, but the Cosantir wouldn’t purchase them.”
Donal gave her a quizzical stare. “That’s why we’re given a general fund in addition to the stipend. Budgeting for the larger items can be—”
She growled.
“I’m missing something, aren’t I?”
“There was no general fund, healer.” Because she wasn’t one of the God-touched. “There was no money at all. Someone else stocked the medical bag and with only the very basics. Nothing else. I did not get paid; I got room and board, for which I also had to do all the cleaning in the communal house as well as being a banfasa. Apparently, banfasas aren’t worth much.”
“Penny-pinching Pete.” Donal’s lips formed a straight line of disgust. “Your grandmother probably didn’t tell you, but banfasas receive a stipend—like healers. The amount is negotiated depending on the time the clan requires and the kinds of injuries and treatments routinely needed.”
“I should have gotten money?” She knew it.
“Aye. Each clan maintains a fund to pay for healers and banfasas, bards, soulweavers, blademages—all those—and for things like communal houses, Gathering supplies. Whatever is needed for the well-being of the Daonain in the territory.” He grinned. “Calum is considering subsidizing a hacker and document forger.”
“I should have gotten real money,” she repeated, refusing to be sidetracked.
“Aye, banfasa, you should have.” Donal shook his head. “At one time, Pete wasn’t a bad Cosantir, but he’s grown short-sighted and penurious. I don’t think he spends money on himself—just piles it into the bank.”
“Older folk do that sometimes when they start losing control of their lives and fear for the future.” Margery eyed the tidy, well-maintained houses on the block. Like a house, a clan required constant upkeep. Fixing things. Investing in preventative care. “Pete’s territory isn’t doing well. Can’t Calum do something about that?”
“No. Cosantirs are limited to their own territory. If the Rainier clan wants change—or for the God to call a different Cosantir—they’ll have to bestir themselves. The shifters in that territory could fix things if they got their paws moving.”
They weren’t moving. They just did what Pete wanted. She looked down at her hands. “They made me feel like I wasn’t worth paying. But it was a trick. I heard Roger and his beta say the lack of money would keep me from leaving.”
“That’s a vile thing to do to anyone, especially someone putting her life back together after being a captive.”
His anger at how she’d been treated was…heartening. Wonderful. She found a smile. “Thanks to Heather, I did manage to leave.”
“She’s a feisty wolf.” Donal took Margery’s hand.
Touching. He was touching her. His fingers were lean, the warmth seeping into her skin, making her aware of the rest of his body, of—
She shook her head. Focus, female.
“Speaking of your leaving Rainier Territory…” He gave her fingers a squeeze. “I wasn’t going to tell you this, but if ’twere me, I’d want to know.”
This what? The way his mouth turned down in a sour grimace was a warning, and she braced herself. “You’d better tell me, then.”
“At the Gathering last moon, I talked with two shifters from Ailill Ridge and was told you were…” He paused, considered, then said simply, “Basically that you weren’t a good banfasa.”