She draws back in shock. “Who taught you that?”
I shrug. “Madam Nova. Who else?”
Mama presses her lips together in disapproval but doesn’t comment. She never really liked Madam Nova, the ancient magi who came over from Feridas to tutor me. I don’t know why. Mama picks up the bracelet and pliers and returns to twisting off links with a little more vigor than strictly necessary. “Anyway,” she begins, her voice rough. She clears her throat and continues. “What your stepfather won’t admit to either of us is that you’re brilliant, and if anyone in the dom can pull this off, it’s you.”
I don’t know how to react to the compliment. Luckily, I’m saved from having to respond by someone pounding on the door. “Magi Iona,” a frantic female voice says.
Mama leaps off the bed and rushes for the door, swinging it open. A young acolyte—her eyes bright red, face tear-stained—is standing on the other side. “What happened?” Mama asks.
“They need your help. Please hurry.”
She doesn’t ask any more questions, just tells the girl to lead the way. The acolyte sets off down the hall at breakneck speed, and Mama and I follow. The three of us crash through the double doors into the clinic where half a dozen magi and gods onlyknow how many acolytes and patients cluster in the middle of the room—some are crying, some clutch their chests in disbelief while other’s shout at whoever is on the floor to, “Stop.”
“Please, stop.”
“Somebody help her.”
“Out of my way,” Mama says, as she shoves through the throng. She drops to her knees beside a pretty brunette I recognize as Sariah, a transfer from Dom Bac. It’s no wonder everyone is in such a state. Sariah tears at her throat and chest, fingernails digging into her skin as though trying to free whatever horror lies beneath. Purple sythra in hand, two magi search her for injuries to heal, while acolytes fight to pull her hands away from her chest. And all the while, Sariah continues to scream and scream and scream.
Mama grabs the girl’s bloody hand, presses a clear sythra into her palm and fists it closed. “Push it out,” she shouts, her words barely audible over the girl’s frantic screams. “Push the magic into the stone.”
But Sariah doesn’t seem to hear. Her eyes are so wide, so terror-stricken, the tears gushing toward her temples like tiny rivers. The scent of cooking flesh fills my nostrils. Her chest is smoking.
That’s when I realize what’s happened, and my hand flies to my mouth, stifling a gasp. Sariah must have dropped her stone while drawing spectral magic into her body, and without the stone to push the magic into, it’s burning her up from the inside. I rush to my mother’s side, not knowing what to do except help in any way I can.
“Mama.”
She throws out a hand, stopping me in my tracks. “Get back.”
“I wantto—”
“Not now, Katya,” she shouts, waving me away like a pestering child.
The words hit me like a physical blow, and I stumble back, almost falling on my butt when my foot slips on an errant towel. Sariah’s screams turn to choking breaths, then whimpers.
“That’s it. That’s it. Good job, Sariah,” Mama tells the girl. “Alise, Dav, now,” she shouts at two magi still standing with the acolytes, watching. They scurry over, joining mama and the others already frantically working to heal the girl. Mama shouts more commands, telling them to do “more” and work “faster,” while continuing to praise Sariah.
Wheezing breaths, more coughing, then Sariah’s eyes flutter shut and her head slumps to the side.
For a split second, I think she’s dead, then Mama calls over a couple of the bigger male acolytes and says, “Take her to her room. She needs to rest and get a telegram to her mother at Dom Bac. She’ll want to see her.”
The males pick the girl up like a sack of flour between them and head for the clinic door.
The crowd begins to disperse, and Mama stands, wiping her blood-stained hands down her purple robe. She turns to me, her face drawn with exhaustion and perhaps just a little bit of guilt. “I’ll take you to your stepfather.”
By the time we make it to the fancy carriage and four waiting out front, the line for the clinic already zigzags across the lawn and into the street. It’s like this every day, all day. Fae from as far north as the Cregeis mountains here in Elterra to the southern tip of Ajir province make the trek to Dom Duje, looking to our magi to heal everything from broken bones to typhus. And they do.
For a small fee, of course.
Leodin gives Mama instructions for while he’s gone and she listens, her expression neutral. I don’t know the whole story of why they got married, but it definitely wasn’t a love match—not for Mama, at least. I do think Leodin loved her at one time, though I’m fairly certain that changed when I came into the picture.
Maxim leaps into my arms and squeezes me with every ounce of his seven-year-old strength. “Promise you’re coming back.”
“For you, peanut? Always.” He squeezes me again, then hops down and crashes into his father, his head plowing Leodin right in the gut. Leodin doubles over with an “oomph,” but he doesn’t chastise his son. Even Leodin’s hard veneer is no match for Max’s sweetness.
Mama gives me a quick hug, then draws back to study my face as though she needs to memorize every detail in case she never sees me again.
“It’s only a couple of weeks. I’ll be fine,” I tell her.
