A moan escapes my lips as I sink into the tub. I feel like I could fall asleep, but as soon as I try to relax, my mind wanders to dark thoughts, making my muscles tense yet again.
I saved the king when I could have killed him. Should I have let him die?My heart sinks at the thought.
No. I did what I was trained to do. What I’ve always wanted to do. I saved someone.
I just hope his life was worth saving.
* * *
Hours later I make my way back to the room where I performed the surgery, only to find Aspen’s body being lifted by several guards. A wave of terror goes through me. Did something happen? Had my surgery failed to save him?
“What’s going on?” I ask.
A hand falls on my shoulder, and I find Gildmar at my side. “Worry not,” she says in her ancient voice. “He’s recovering.”
“Then where are they taking him?”
She looks at me, aghast. “To your rooms, of course. The king should recover in comfort and privacy, where his mate can tend to him with ease.”
I hate the way she saystend to him, as if I’m Aspen’s subservient woman, eager to fulfill his every need. But I understand the sentiment. I was responsible for healing him, after all. I can think of him more like my patient rather than my mate. Wouldn’t I want my patient to heal in comfort?
“Of course,” I say, trying to hide my irritation.
I follow the guards back to the bedroom, cursing the stairs twice over now that I’ve had to ascend them for the second time today, then watch as they lay Aspen on the bed. When they depart, Gildmar remains. “I brought you more extract of honey pyrus.” She hands me a vial. “Give him more when he seems to be in pain.”
“Thank you,” I say, then set the vial on the bedside table.
“I’m still astonished you managed to save him when I could not.” Gildmar’s voice comes out small, heavy with remorse. Then her eyes meet mine. “I never knew humans had such powers. Where did you learn such healing?”
“My mo—” I stop short, realizing I was about to saymy motherwhen I’d meant to say Mr. Meeks. The mistake unsettles me, unearthing a flood of memories from my childhood. Memories of me and Mother “treating” her patrons. She’d stand at their heads, burning herbs over them, administering tinctures, while I’d place my hands over their bodies. Mother would praise me for clearing their energy and aiding in healing, and I would swell with pride. It wasn’t until Amelie nearly died that I understood my folly. That’s when Mr. Meeks showed me what true medicine was. When I realized Mother wasn’t a healer but a fraud at worst and an herbalist at best. When I stopped believing in magic.
I shake the memories from my mind. “Surgery is a miraculous thing,” I say instead.
She gives me a wide smile, making the corner of her eyes crinkle on her brown, bark-like face. Then she takes her leave.
I’m left alone with Aspen dozing on the bed. With slow steps, I approach him and look him over. Outfitted in nothing but a clean, elegant robe of bronze silk, his chest rises and falls in an even rhythm, face slack, lips slightly parted. He looks nothing like the fierce, dangerous king I’ve come to know.
My eyes rove across his torso. His skin still looks pale, but a hint of gold has replaced the ghostly blue. At least the tendrils of black seem to have receded a bit, showing only a few thin veins peeking above the collar of his robe. I reach a hand toward the collar, slowly peeling it away to reveal the bandaged wound. The skin is still angry around it, red, black, and purple with plenty of black tendrils branching away, streaking in every direction.
I return the collar to cover his torso, but as I pull my fingers away, Aspen’s hand covers mine, heavy and warm. My eyes flash to his face, but his eyes remain closed. His face contorts, head rolling slowly from one side to the other. He mutters something I can’t understand.
I retract my hand from under his and rush to the bedside table. “You need more honey pyrus,” I say, then pour a dropperful between his lips.
His face relaxes and his muttering fades.
I watch him for a few moments, wondering what exactly I’ve gotten myself into. How long will I have to play nursemaid to him?
“Evie.” The word comes from Aspen’s lips, slow and heavy.
I try to ignore the irritation that lights a fire in my chest at the sound of my nickname—the nickname only Amelie ever used for me. “Yes, it’s me.”
“Are you…going…to kill me?” Each word comes out with great effort, but a smile tugs at the corner of his lips, eyes remaining closed.
“No, I saved you. Only iron knows why.”
He winces. “Don’t say iron.”
I say nothing, hoping the honey pyrus will return him to his slumber.
