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"This is for you."
Tibelda emerged and took the bottle. "It should be dried on the stem, not crumbled." She opened it and sniffed. "Too old." She thrust it back in the nurse's hand. "Go away."
"Wait!" Sharon caught the door before it slammed shut. "Mathilde said you took good care of the women in Jena. There are other people who need your help, and they can't take no for an answer."
Either Mathilde's name or the compliment appeared to mollify the old woman, for the door swung inward.
Sharon and Anne walked in. Crude furnishings within the cottage provided Spartan comfort, while bunches of flowers and herbs hung suspended from the network of boughs supporting the roof thatch. Another door at the back of the cottage stood open, revealing a well-stocked pantry. The air smelled fragrant and delicious, thanks to something bubbling in a pot hung over the hearth. A thin pallet occupied one corner, while a simple cross nailed to one wall provided the only decoration.
"Just like Granny's." Anne's eyes grew misty. "Right down to the simmering stew pot."
Sharon gave her friend's arm a squeeze. When Grantville had been wrenched from the year 2000 and thrown back through the Ring of Fire to 1632, Anne had been shopping in town. She'd lost her entire family, including her beloved grandmother, who'd lived only twenty miles away.
Tibelda went to stir the pot. "Where are the people who need me?"
The two women exchanged a look before Anne began with, "You may have heard about Grantville—"
"The place of endless wonders, and witchcraft." She snorted. "I've heard."
Anne wondered if the old woman resented the u