Gingerly picking up the glass with her one, good hand, Éowyn eyed the murky orange-brown mixture with dismay, and set it down untasted. Perhaps her arm did not ache quite that badly. She went and leaned on the window frame. The rooftops spread below her were not inspiring and the sky roiled with storm clouds billowing up from the south. The damp wind blowing in smelled of rain and ash, and chilled her. She shivered and a lance of pain shot along her broken arm.

She turned from the window when she heard the door open. One of the young healers came into the room and frowned at the full medicine glass.

“You have not drunk your willow bark, my lady. If I thought that meant your arm did not pain you, I would be glad, but I see it is otherwise.”

Éowyn guiltily dropped her hand from where it had been cradling the splint, trying to infuse warmth to the break. “We brew willow bark differently in Rohan.”

“That may be, Lady Éowyn, but this is an ancient formula and has proven very effective.” His tolerant smile annoyed her.

Effective for pain, but better as an emetic. She liked licorice, ginger, garlic and tumeric, but not together! “Leave it. If needful, I will drink it later,” she said in the tone of voice she used to exact obedience from errant servants.

He bowed himself out of the room, and she found herself once again alone and chilled. Rain sheeted down outside her window, obscuring what little view she had. She awkwardly tried to fasten a shawl around her shoulders. There would be no walks in the gardens today, neither for her nor the Steward. He was no doubt as cold as she was, and, if he had drunk that foul brew, probably nauseous as well.

The door opened again, and she turned an impatient eye on the maid who stood there.

“Sorry to disturb. I was told to see if you needed anything.” The maid effaced herself and started to back out of the room.

Anything? “Wait. I do want something.”

Éowyn cradled the warm cup in her hand and breathed in the fresh, aromatic steam. It was still almost too hot to drink, and she took cautious sips. The familiar taste of chamomile, mint, willow bark and honey soothed more than her throat, and she felt tears prick behind her eyes. She held out the cup for refilling.

As the maid popped the cozy back over the pot, Éowyn caught sight of the glass of Gondorian medicine. Giving in to a sudden impulse, she said, “Take the rest of the pot to the Steward.”

“The Steward?” The maid’s eyes were round with fear.

Surely she could not have misunderstood the title of the man in the gardens. “To … Faramir. Is he not also a patient here?”

“Faramir?” The maid breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh yes, my lady. I can take the pot to Lord Faramir.”

“With Rohan’s compliments.”

Lest you think I made up the medicine mixture, I direct you to Mother Earth News (http://www.motherearthnews.com/additional/print.php?id=2093) where you will find a recipe for willow bark tea from James A. Duke, Ph.D. “Take three parts dried willow bark, two parts dried licorice root and one part minced garlic. Pour boiling water over the mixture and steep for about 15 minutes. If you don't like the taste, add lemon and/or honey, plus ginger and turmeric to taste.”

Éowyn ’s recipe is my friend Patti’s favorite.