Rumi pours the vinegar on a clean white cloth and presses the dampened corner directly onto my wound. I clench my eyes and hiss out several curses.
“Do you want to visit El Mercado and have salteñas tomorrow?”
I blink. “What? With you?”
“Would you rather go with the king?” At my recoil, he sobers. “Sorry. Terrible thing to say. I think you need a break from the castillo. I can take you at eleventh bell.”
His dark eyes are on mine, crinkling at the corners from laughing. Chances to leave the castillo are rare and I’m not going to miss the opportunity—or turn down free salteñas. And I wouldn’t mind his company. As soon as the thought enters my mind, I blush. He notices, and that little line forms between his brows.
“Yes.” I look at my arm. “All right.”
He pours more vinegar onto the cloth and repeats the process.
My eyes spill with tears. “You owe me at least three for this.”
“I’ll be done in just a moment.” He blows softly on the wound. Then he takes the oily liquid right out of a cactus leaf and smears the mixture all over my messy elbow. “It seems like I’m always patching you up.”
I look over his handiwork. The wound is cleaner, the blood wiped away. “You’re a good healer, Rumi.”
His eyes flicker in surprise.
“What?”
“You’ve never called me by my name before.”
His pointing it out makes me flush. Of course he’d notice something like that.
I lift my eyes and our gazes lock.
He’s focused on me, not my damaged elbow. There’s bewilderment in his eyes, a question that I don’t know the answer to. I sit there, unmoving, his hand a gentle weight on my arm. His skin is warm and soft. That line between his brows becomes more pronounced. Then I shift my attention to my elbow, pretending to be absorbed by his skill.
“I feel … confused,” Rumi says softly.
My breath stops at my chest. “Why?”
A long moment passes. He removes his hand from my arm. “Your elbow will be fine. Don’t wipe away the mixture, and keep it from getting wet.”
“Rumi.”
He stands. “Do you want tea?”
I blink. “All right.”
He walks over to the hearth, where a black kettle hangs above the burning wood, and lights a fire. Then he pulls down a variety of herbs hanging from the ceiling. My lizard pokes its head out of my pocket, and I use my index finger to push him down. “Be still,” I mutter.
Rumi turns from the hearth. “Can you handle spicy?”
I give him a look. “Do your worst, healer.”
He smiles and places a steaming mug of tea in front of me. I take a cautious sip. “It’s good,” I say. “What’s in it?”
“It’s my own blend. A little heat from the locoto pepper, honey, pinch of lavender.”
Whenever he speaks about his herbs, Rumi comes to life. It’s like he takes off an ill-fitting coat and the clothes underneath are tailor-made for him. It strikes me how confident he seems to be away from Atoc and the court that laughs at him.
I take another sip. The warmth of the tea spreads all the way to my toes. The sting from my elbow vanishes, and I take a deep, calming breath. “My arm doesn’t hurt. Is this your magic at work?”
“More or less,” he says. “I have a knack at herb lore, but I don’t have to use it.”
