The Moonspinners by Mary Stewart

went back and set a match to the fire.
    I am not much good at making fires, but with the dry cones, and the verbena scrub I had collected, anyone could have done it. The single match caught hold, fingered the strands of dead stuff with bright threads, then went streaming up in a lovely blaze of ribbon flames. The sudden heat was wonderful, living and intense. The pot crackled as it heated, tilting dangerously as a twig charred and broke under it, and the water hissed at the edges against the burning metal.
    I glanced upwards anxiously. What smoke there was, was almost invisible, a transparent sheet of vapour no thicker than pale-grey nylon, sliding up the curved cliff face, to vanish, before it reached the upper air, in a mere quivering of heat-vapour. Ten minutes of this could do no harm.
    The pot hissed and bubbled. I broke the last of the chocolate into the mug, poured boiling water over it, and stirred it with a bone-white twig which was as clean as the weather could scour it. The fire was dying rapidly down in a glow of red ash. I replaced the pot in its still hot bed, then carried the steaming mug out to Mark.
    â€˜Can you drink this?’
    He turned his head reluctantly, and opened his eyes. ‘What is it?’ His voice sounded blurred, and I wondered, with a pang of real fear, if I had done wrongly in allowing the dreadful effort of the climb. ‘Good lord, it’s hot! How did you do it?’
    â€˜I told you. I lit a fire.’
    I saw the sudden flicker of alarm in his eyes, and realized that he had been too exhausted to take in what had been said earlier. I smiled quickly, and knelt beside him.
    â€˜Don’t worry, the fire’s out. Drink this now, all of it. I’ve saved some hot water, and I’m going to do your arm when you’ve had this.’
    He took the mug, and sipped the scalding liquid. ‘What is it?’
    â€˜My own recipe; healing herbs gathered under a waning moon in the White Mountains.’
    â€˜It tastes to me like weak cocoa. Where in the world did you get it?’ His head jerked up as a thought struck him, and some cocoa spilled. ‘Have they – has Lambis come?’
    â€˜No, not yet. It’s only the chocolate, melted up.’
    â€˜There wasn’t much left, I saw it. Have you had yours?’
    â€˜Not yet. There’s only one mug. I’ll have mine if you’ll get that drunk up. Hurry up.’
    He obeyed me, then lay back. ‘That was marvellous. I feel better already. You’re a good cook, Nicolette.’
    â€˜Nicola.’
    â€˜I’m sorry.’
    â€˜So you should be. Now grit your teeth, hero, I’m going to take a look at your arm.’
    I went back to my fire, which had died down to white ash. I drank a mugful of hot water – which tasted surprisingly good – then went back to Mark, with the steaming pot, and my courage, held carefully in both hands.
    I am not sure which of us showed the more resolution during the ensuing process, Mark or myself. I knew very little about wounds and nursing – how should I? – and I had a strong feeling that the sight of anything unpleasant or bloody would upset me shamefully. Besides, I might have to hurt him, and the idea was horrifying. But it had to be done. I tightened my stomach muscles, steadied my hands, and – with what I hoped was an air of calm but sympathetic efficiency – set myself to undo the distinctly nasty wrappings that Lambis had last night put back on Mark’s arm.
    â€˜Don’t look so scared,’ said the patient comfortingly. ‘It stopped bleeding hours ago.’
    â€˜Scared? Me? For pity’s sake, where did Lambis get this stuff?’
    â€˜Part of his shirt, I think.’
    â€˜Good heavens. Yes, it looks like it. And what in the world’s this? It looks like leaves! ’
    â€˜Oh, it is. More of your healing herbs gathered under a waning moon. It’s something Lambis found, I can’t