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"Hush, now, Motan!" said Mereflod. "I'm sure Miss Saeryn knows many things, but... she's sick right now and can't answer all our questions. Remember that Mistress Bethberry sent us here to watch out after her, not so she will have to answer any questions we put to her."
Mereflod, secretly, was also disappointed about Saeryn's silence, for she had hoped to hear many interesting stories about different people and places, and at any other time she, like Motan, would have been exasperated. But at the moment her feeling of duty lay heavily on her mind, and she kept before her in her mind the ultimate goal... to have Mistress Bethberry kiss her and thank her for all her help. And Mistress Bethberry would do no such thing if they made Miss Saeryn even worse.
"I think," said Motan, in another loud whisper, "that Miss Saeryn is getting sicker."
Mereflod saw that it was true. Miss Saeryn was lacking all colour, and her eyes, when they were open, looked very strange. Her hands were clenched at her sides and her body was slightly contorted, as if she were twisted with pain. Mereflod clambered up onto the bed and sat alongside Motan, and the two of them stared at the young woman for a little while, Motan in a rather awed horror, and Mereflod in deep thought. At last the latter moved up the bed until she was sitting by Saeryn's head, and she began to run her hand gently through the ill girl's hair, remembering how her mother often did the same to her.
Motan, apparently inspired by Mereflod's gentle touch, picked up one of Saeryn's hands and began to pat it, singing in a wee soft voice, high pitched and rather out of tune, but all the more dear for that.
"Hush, my little dearie-o,
fret not in thy sleep.
In thine eye a tear-i-o,
and thou should not weep.
Hush, hush, my own little dear,
hush, hush, for I am here."
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