“It’s a coincidence,” I manage to say. “You were already on the mend.”
She crosses her arms and lifts a brow. “Seriously? That’s your best explanation.”
I admit, I have no way to explain how she could have healed that much in a matter of days. “All I know is that it wasn’t because of me.”
Her eyes go steely, lips pressing into a tight line. “Don’t you dare let my king die. Don’t you dare give up right now, no matter how much you think his death might suit you.”
Her words send a shock through me. The option of letting him die had yet to cross my mind, but now that I’m forced to consider it…would it be better if I simply did nothing? I look over at Aspen, watching the tendrils of black crawling over his torso. If I leave him be, the iron will poison his blood. He’ll be dead before long.
I could let it happen. He did let my sister die, after all. And he may have been directly responsible for her death in the first place, not to mention the deaths of the Holstrom girls and who knows who else.
He deserves to die.
The thought makes my stomach churn. That’s not how I was trained. Mr. Meeks taught me that a surgeon treats anyone, regardless of station or history. Some surgeons are even sent to treat convicted criminals sentenced to hang.
I may never become the medical professional I wanted to be, but that doesn’t mean I’ll stop being the apprentice I was trained to be.
My heart rate begins to slow, breaths growing deeper. I return to Aspen’s side, meet Gildmar’s eyes. “Hand me that shard of seashell, then fetch me strands of spider silk and a splinter-thin bone. And where in the blazing iron is that wine?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Cobalt brings the wine. I remove the poultice and pour the deep red liquid over the wound. Gildmar uses a dropper—much like the ones my mother uses for her tinctures—and drips honey pyrus extract into Aspen’s lips, explaining it will help manage the pain. I wish we had laudanum, but the extract seems to work nearly as well. The king’s body goes limp and his moaning ceases. Then, with deft fingers, I take the sharpest shard of seashell and make the incision, widening the opening on either side of the arrow shaft.
I ignore the blood that pours forth, ignore how much blacker it is than red. When I finally see the head of the arrow, I understand the problem. Its head is edged with four barbs. Removing it isn’t simply a matter of turning the arrow to let it escape between two ribs. I’ll need to twist it, angle it, pull it to the side. All without puncturing his internal organs.
For one moment, I freeze, unsure how to proceed. Gildmar has no forceps, no tweezers. I will have to use my hands through all of this. Without a second thought, I pour wine over my hands to clean them and reach inside the cut.
Time slows. I close my eyes, forgetting how far off protocol I’ve gotten, ignore the feeling of Aspen’s blood and tissues on my skin. A calm certainty floods through me, and I follow it, find the tip of the arrow. I slide it to the side and Aspen groans.
“More honey pyrus,” I say to Gildmar.
She moves to obey, and I shift the arrowhead again. One of the barbs is free. Then another. I rotate it slightly, turn it to the side.
Free.
The arrow comes away, and I toss it to the floor, knowing none of the fae can take it from me. I cleanse the wound again, check for internal damage. It’s hard to tell considering everything is discolored with the tendrils of black, but he appears without further injury. I call for spider silk and bone, which Gildmar hands me. As quickly and as neatly as I can with the makeshift tools, I stitch him back together.
I tie the last stitch, then step back. Time seems to shift back to normal, and I release a heavy sigh. Only now do I realize the sweat on my brow and back of my neck. Only now does it dawn on me what I did.
I performed a surgery without normal tools. Unguided. And mostly with my hands.
I’m not sure whether I should be proud or horrified. More than anything, I’m exhausted. The surgery took mere minutes, but every part of me was in the task, focused like never before. Now I can feel the energy draining from me.
“You did it,” Lorelei says, coming to my side.
Foxglove gives me an appreciative nod. “You saved the king.”
“That you did,” Gildmar says from the other side of the table. “Something not even I could do. If you hadn’t been here…well, I suppose Cobalt would have had me executed for being the death of his brother.”
“I wouldn’t do that, Gildmar,” Cobalt says.
“Well, you should,” she says. “Luckily, you don’t have to. Apparently, your brother won the golden lot when the Reaping brought this human girl to be his mate.”
Cobalt’s face falls, and my eyes snap away from him.
“I’m going to clean up,” I say. “I’ll return to check on the king after.”
I make my way back to Aspen’s room, wanting nothing more than to be rid of stairs. Why did he have to place his bedroom nearly at the top of the palace? By the time I reach it, I find a bath of steaming water waiting for me. I probably have Lorelei to thank for that, although I can’t imagine how it was filled in the time it took me to get here. Without delay, I peel off my blood-stained dress and toss it in a heap in the corner of the room. If the fae don’t have any powerful detergents to clean blood from silk, the dress is ruined. I hadn’t considered asking for an apron before the surgery began.
