“Wow,” she said.
A small desk sat before the shelves, piled with notes, folders, an appointment book, and an unlit lantern. She must have interrupted him in his work. It didn’t look much like surgery, as far as Viv was concerned.
Highlark strode past a staircase leading up, and through a white door into the back. Astringent smells assaulted Viv’s nose as she followed into a very different room. Modern flick-lanterns lit the area brightly, their low hiss filling the air. A pair of long, padded tables stood in the center, and the walls were covered in charts, notes, and illustrations. Vast counters with rows and rows of drawers below them ran along every wall. Bottles, boxes, neatly folded linen, and jars of blue fluids stood ready. She even spied several small—but exceptionallydetailed—wooden skeletons of various races suspended from metal arms by thread.
“Up,” said Highlark, gesturing to the furthest table. “I suppose you’re saving me a trip. And if you can make your way here once, you can do it again, if the need arises.”
As Viv slid onto the table—she didn’t even have to push herself up—she grimaced and pulledHeart’s Bladeout of her back pocket to lay it beside her. Highlark lifted her injured leg and rested her heel on the table opposite.
Without another word, he deftly unwrapped her bandages. When the flesh was exposed, he made an involuntary sound of consternation.
“What?” asked Viv.
Highlark didn’t answer, instead bringing his spectacles up to examine her wounds. He prodded the flesh, and while it was stillverytender, her head didn’t go all swimmy at the pressure, as it had during his last visit.
“It’s getting on fine,” he said. He straightened, letting his spectacles dangle back against his chest.
Itdidlook a lot better. Her leg was still very swollen, but it wasn’t actively oozing, and the hot blush of red had receded to a fainter and less far-reaching pink.
Highlark glanced at the book, and his expression registered a different shade of surprise. “A little light reading?”
“Yeah, I think Fern has made a project of me.”
“Fern?”
“You know, at the bookshop. You must have been there before?” She gestured vaguely in the direction of Highlark’s library.
“Ah! No, I’ve not made her acquaintance.”
“Huh. Where’d you get all the books, then?”
Highlark squinted at her. “They’re mostly specialty volumes. Reference texts. I’d be surprised if those were the sort of books she carried. A shabby little place, isn’t it?” He opened a drawer, removing a tub of salve and a length of gauze.
As he applied the ointment and rebound her thigh, she asked, “Does that matter? It’s all words in the end, right?” Quite apart from her wound, she felt a mild sting of indignation on Fern’s behalf.
The elf stared at her quizzically, as though she’d suddenly been replaced with someone else entirely. “Why so interested?”
“I dunno. I guess I’ve gotten more out of the place than I expected, and I figured that people who alreadyhavebooks would go to… book places.”
“She recommendedthisbook to you?”
“Yeah. Although I think she’s maybe trying to get a rise out of me at the same time.”
“Russa Tensiger. An elven author. Quite accomplished.” Highlark picked up the volume and examined it thoughtfully. “Andyou’rereading it?”
“I’m half through. So youdoread things that aren’t… what did you call them, reference texts?”
“From time to time.” He handed the book back.
Highlark had her make a circuit around the room, watching as she moved on the crutch and asking her to apply more weight to her heel. Then he had her stand without support, shifting her weight on and off her wounded leg.
It still hurt like hells, but maybe not all eight of them.
Finally, he observed her thoughtfully, tapping his spectacles against his chin for what seemed like a long time. Then he swapped the crutch for a walking staff he produced from a tall cupboard in the corner.
“Your associates have already paid for your care. I’d like to see you back in a week, yes?”
“Yeah, sure.”
