“Stop,” Isildeth interrupted gently. “Don’t think about all of us. I’d die of overwhelm if I were in your place.”
Evelyne’s gaze drifted past her, toward the window where dawn had begun to swallow the gardens. The reflection of her own face in the glass looked unfamiliar—older, worn, and quietly furious at the years lost to survival.
“Think,” Isildeth murmured, “that you’re doing this for one person. The rest will fall into place. And it’ll make everything easier to bear.”
Evelyne’s breath trembled. “For who?”
Isildeth smiled then and reached out, brushing a braid from Evelyne’s shoulder. Her fingers lingered there for a breath.
“For the girl they taught to disappear.”
Evelyne wanted to laugh and sob at once, to tell Isildeth she didn’t remember how to be that girl anymore, that she’d buried her under marble and titles years ago.
But her nod came in pieces—disjointed, uncertain, like her body was trying to relearn the motion of saying yes to herself.
Isildeth placed a warm hand on Evelyne’s arm. “I’ll prepare your bath,” she said. “And after breakfast, we’ll use the drawing room.”
Evelyne looked up. Her eyes met Isildeth’s, and for a second, something tugged low in her chest. Familiar and sharp.
“Thank you, Isildeth.”
It came out hoarse.
Isildeth smiled and reached out to touch Evelyne’s cheek. Just for a moment. Her hand was warm and safe. Then she stood up and left, the door closing softly behind her. Evelyne didn’t collapse. She stayed where she was, shaking hands wrapped around her ribs, chest still tight.
She stayed like that for a long time—half-upright, half-remembering, as if any movement might shatter whatever part of her was still holding. She was used to being tired. But this… this was something else. She felt wrung out. As though her body had been held in a fist too long and was only now starting to unfold.
But Evelyne let it press in, let it touch every place she’d been taught to make small. Then, slowly, she lifted one hand and pressed it against her own sternum, where the fear always curled first. Her pulse beat there—fragile, persistent.
Proof she was still here.
Chapter 38
The knock at the door came at dawn. Thessa had been stirring porridge with the last of the barley. Her eyes were sunken; lips cracked from too little sleep. Sera had screamed in the night before. Her voice had gone hoarse from it. Now she lay curled on the cot, knees tucked to her chest, staring at nothing.
They had finally scraped together enough for a physician.
It had taken a week. Thessa sold her best shawl, her mother pawned the only silver brooch left from her wedding, and her brother had taken a second job shoveling ground from the landslide. Every coin was counted, polished, wrapped in linen, like it might mean more that way.
The physician had demanded payment upfront.
Her brother stood stiff by the wall, eyes too bright to be hopeful. Her mother wiped her palms on her skirt and crossed to the door. She pressed it open, voice steady and respectful. “Good morning, sir. Thank you for coming.”
The man gave a small nod. He was old, with a trimmed beard and yellowed fingertips from herbs. His robes were clean, finely stitched—he looked like someone from a different story altogether. They led him home like he was a holy thing. His boots left damp prints on the floorboards, and each step made the old wood sigh.
“Over here,” Thessa whispered, guiding the man into the dim room. “She hasn’t eaten in two days. She doesn’t speak. She hums… all the time. She’s burning. We can’t wake her proper—she just—”
The healer moved closer. Then stopped.
His nostrils flared.
Sera stirred on the cot, a low hum spilling from her lips, eerie and tuneless. Her skin glistened with sweat; damp hair plastered to her forehead.
The man bent over her slowly—first pressing two fingers to her wrist, then to the hollow of her throat. Sera jolted under his touch, eyes snapping open for an instant, wide and unseeing. His brows drew tighter with each pulse he counted.
Thessa grasped her arm, whispering, “Shh, shh, it’s all right,” though her own voice trembled. Sera’s grip answered once—desperate, fleeting—before falling still.
The healer hovered his palm above her chest, as if weighing breath itself. A long exhale shuddered through him.
