Foxglove covers his mouth with his sleeve and takes a step back. With a deep breath, I look over the king. His face is covered in a sheen of sweat, teeth gritted, head lolling side to side as he moans in agony. His golden skin has faded so pale it’s almost white, with an unhealthy blue tinge beneath it. His lips are chapped and peeling, and his eyes look sunken, a bruise-like purple surrounding them.
Cobalt faces the tiny fae. “Gildmar, show her the wound.”
She eyes me for a moment, then reaches for the silk sheet covering Aspen’s body and pulls it away from his neck. With a gasp, she springs away and drops the sheet as if it burned her.
“I’ll do it.” I take a cautious step forward, training my expression beneath my surgeon’s calm despite my racing heart. With quick, deliberate movements, I set down my surgery kit and pull the sheet down, exposing Aspen’s chest. The tang of blood and iron increase, and the fae step farther away. My hands tremble as I tuck the sheet around his waist and take in his damaged chest.
A poultice covers the wound, which is on his left side, not far from his heart. If he has a heart, that is. The skin around it is every shade of black, purple, and blue, with blue-black streaks spreading out in every direction across his torso. His breathing is shallow, labored. I don’t need to know much about fae physiology to know Aspen is dying.
“What can I use as antiseptic?” I call out.
“Anti-what?” Gildmar asks, her voice like the creak of an old door.
I close my eyes, realizing—of course—they don’t have antiseptic. Or know what it is. “Wine then. Someone get me wine. Now.”
“I’ll get some,” I hear Cobalt say, followed by the sound of his feet tearing from the room.
I reach for the poultice, lifting a corner. “Has this helped at all?”
“It is slowing the iron poisoning his blood,” Gildmar says, “but with the arrowhead stuck inside him, there’s nothing I can use to stop it completely.”
“I need clean cloth.” Gildmar hands me strips of red spider silk. I’ve never used silk for dressing wounds, so I can only hope it will suffice. I set the cloth next to Aspen, then open my surgery kit.
Scalpel in hand, I return to Aspen.
His eyes fly open, a roar escaping his lips. “No!”
I look from his maniacal expression to the scalpel in my hand. Understanding dawns on me as I remember what Lorelei said about human metals—even weak ones—being unbearable to a fae with a current iron injury.
As Aspen’s body begins to convulse, the scalpel slips from my shaking hands and clatters to the floor.
“Close it!” I hear Lorelei shout behind me. “Close that box!”
I sink to my knees, fumbling to replace the scalpel and shut the kit. Only when I secure the clasp does Aspen settle back down. I stand, finding the king once again listless. Fresh blood streaked with black oozes from his side beneath the poultice.
I’m frozen in place, at a loss for both words and actions.
“You can treat him,” Gildmar says. “He’s calm now.”
“I can’t use my tools,” I whisper.
“No, but you can use mine.” The little fae indicates a table strewn with herbs, poultices, shells, sticks, and sharp, white bones.
“I was trained to use tools.Thesetools.” I point to my kit, lying useless on the floor.
“Your hands will work too.”
I shake my head, backing toward the door. My breaths grow faster, shallower. “No. I can’t do this.”
Lorelei takes hold of my arm. “What’s wrong?”
I meet her eyes, frantic. “I’m not trained for this. I have no idea what to do if I can’t use my tools.”
“You don’t need your tools,” she says. “Just do what you did for me.”
I sigh. It’s time to admit the truth. “I didn’t do anything for you, Lorelei. I merely inspected your wound, helped you stretch. The fact that you felt better afterward was negligible. A placebo, if anything.”
“Then how do you explain this?” She lifts the hem of her skirt, revealing her leg. Her smooth, unmarred leg with its perfect brown skin. I look to the other, thinking there must be some mistake, but both look exactly alike.
