The wooden door closed with a thud, and I exhaled, the cool evening air a welcome balm. Locking the door and slipping the key into my pocket, I followed the path through the small front garden. The scent of lavender and rosemary rose around me as I brushed past. My fingers lingered on a chamomile plant, its soft leaves already promising comfort in the salves I’d make later.
A movement to my left caught my eye. Wide, unblinking eyes stared from behind a bush. My hand instinctively shot to the dagger tucked into my shoe, fingers curling around the hilt.
“Who’s there?” I called out, my voice steady despite the spike of adrenaline. An ax murderer probably wouldn’t answer, but I asked anyway.
The bush rustled, and a woman my age stepped out, two small children clinging to her skirts. Their wide, cautious eyes darted between me and the path behind them. I narrowed my gaze on her. She was twitchy, blinking unnaturally fast, a clear sign that she was nervous andfrightened. Not a threat. My shoulders relaxed.
I didn’t need to hear a word. I’d seen the look on her face too many times before: desperation wrapped in quiet dignity. Seeing a doctor was a luxury, and despite the city’s polished facade, some still slipped through the cracks.
My fingers started tapping the side of my thigh of their own accord. The rhythm was always the same, as predictable as the pounding of my own heart.Tap, tap, tap, tap.
As my fingertips brushed over the fabric of my trousers in quick succession, my mind fell in step with the tapping. Should I help this family?
Red for the roses, white for the veil,
one to remember, one to betray.
What once started as a childish game to decide who was the hunter and who was the prey in a game of hide-and-seek had turned into a necessity for me. I needed to count the taps, move my fingers in sync. It was the only right way for me to make decisions—the only way I could trust them. The Fates had to decide for me. If my fingers landed onremember—I’d help them. If it landed on betray—I’d send them away. My fingers tapped the last of the rhyme and the choice fell on “remember.”
I offered the mother a reassuring smile and softened my voice.
“Come inside. Let’s see if there are any cookies hiding in the kitchen.” The children’s faces lit up, a flicker of joy breaking through their guarded expressions.
Inside, the scent of warm spices lingered, a reminder of my mother’s baking. The kids settled at the table, crumbsalready clinging to their fingers as they devoured the last of the raisin cookies. I sat across from the mother, opening my bag and laying out a small array of supplies.
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
She hesitated, her hands trembling as she tugged off her gloves. The leather peeled away slowly, revealing skin marred by blisters and raw burns. The sight stole the breath from my lungs. I swallowed hard, keeping my face neutral despite the rush of concern tightening my chest.
“It was an accident at the laundry service where I work. I haven’t been able to go back for the past two days, but I need the money.” Tears filled her eyes as she looked over at her kids playing with a jar of cotton balls. The stories of the patients were the hardest part of the job, many of their fates following me around for longer than I’d like to admit. This woman had to be in immense pain by the look of her burned hands and underarms. I cleared my throat.
“I won’t treat you,” I said, voice even. “Because I’m not allowed to. But if something were to happen that lessened your pain while you were in this room… then clearly, it happened on its own.”
The mother nodded again.
“I understand. We have heard of your goodness.”
Goodness.The word struck like a blade, clean and deep. To them, I was a saint. But the truth was that I was clawing my way out of the wreckage of my own sins.
I smiled weakly.
“I’ll make a lotion for you. Rub it over your hands before bed and wear gloves so it doesn’t rub off. You should feel better by morning.”
I crossed to my workbench, a knot tightening in mystomach. My fingers hovered over the jars and dried herbs, but the truth lingered in my mind. No cream could mend burns like hers. What she needed was surgery, layers of scorched skin carefully removed, damaged nerves coaxed back to life. But here, in this place? That kind of care was a distant dream. The likelihood of her ever using her hands again without my intervention was… slim. Still, I had to keep up appearances.
Reaching for the mortar, I ground a handful of herbs into a fine powder, their earthy scent rising in soft clouds. I added zinc cream, the familiar metallic tang coating my hands, then dripped lavender oil into the mix. The soothing scent curled around me, a small comfort in an otherwise useless task. A hand tugged at my sleeve. I glanced down to see one of the children, wide-eyed and curious.
“Do you want to help?” I asked, forcing a smile. She nodded eagerly, and I passed her the spoon. The girl’s giggle filled the room as she stirred.
While the child got to work, I walked over to Dr. Marris’ desk, the creak of the floorboards sounding too loud in the room. I hated lying. But what I was about to do wasn’t only frowned upon, it was a crime.
A crime that could see me locked away, or even killed.
Dr. Marris healed with medicine and steady hands, but what I could do went beyond that, and no one else I’d ever met could do what I was about to do.
I grabbed a quill and a small scrap of parchment from the desk, the feather’s shaft cool and smooth beneath my fingers. As I dipped it into the ink, a sharp throb pulsed behind my eyes. I closed them for a heartbeat, drawing in a slow breath. Not now.
The tingling in my fingertips spread, familiar but unwelcome, like static beneath the skin. I clenched my jaw, pushing the sensation down, forcing it to obey.
