Daryn's room. I should check on him. See if today is one of his better days or if the sickness has him pinned to the mattress again, drowning in his own failing magic. I've been tracking the patterns, searching for rhythm or reason in the disease's progression. So far: nothing. It's random and vicious and utterly resistant to every remedy I've tried.
I'm failing him. My closest friend, the man who stood beside me through training and battles and the worst years of our lives, and I can't save him.
The tea arrives before I spiral too far into despair. Keira enters with practiced quiet, setting the tray on the low table near where Amisra and I sit. She's changed since this morning—fresh tunic and trousers, her chestnut hair rebraided over one shoulder. There's a smudge of flour on her jaw that she hasn't noticed. I want to reach up and brush it away, feel the warmth of her skin under my thumb.
I don't. Obviously.
"Thank you, Keira," I say instead, accepting the cup she pours. Our fingers don't touch. She makes sure of it, always maintaining that careful distance.
"Of course." Professional. Polite. Distant as the moons. "Lord Daryn mentioned you might stay for dinner."
"If it's not an imposition."
"It's never an imposition. I'll tell the cook." But her tone suggests she'd rather I spontaneously combust. "Ami, sweetheart, you need to wash up before the meal."
"But I almost have it!" Amisra protests, still manipulating the puzzle box. True enough—she's nearly solved the first layer already. Terrifyingly intelligent child.
"Five more minutes," Keira concedes, and there it is—that softness she reserves for the little girl. Her whole face transforms when she looks at Amisra. The walls come down. The armor dissolves. She becomes someone younger, gentler, unafraid.
Beautiful.
Then she catches me watching and the walls slam back into place. She straightens, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I'll prepare Lord Daryn's evening tonic while you're occupied."
"I brought fresh ingredients." I gesture to my satchel. "The formula needed adjusting. I'll mix it myself after dinner."
"As you prefer." She's already moving toward the door, clearly eager to escape my presence.
"Keira."
She pauses, doesn't turn around. The line of her shoulders speaks volumes: tension and wariness and bone-deep exhaustion she tries to hide. I wonder if she sleeps. If she spends her nights worrying about Amisra, about what happens when—if—Daryn dies. Where a human nanny fits in the aftermath.
"Yes?"
I should say something meaningful. Something that might bridge this chasm between us. Instead: "I'm certain Daryn appreciates you doing so much."
"I'm glad to do it." Still not looking at me. "Excuse me."
She's gone before I can embarrass myself further. I stare at the empty doorway, my tea cooling in my hands, while Amisrahums beside me and solves puzzles designed for scholars twice her age.
This is torture. Exquisite, patient, devastating torture.
Dinner is a strange affair.Daryn joins us at the table—a good day, then—though he only picks at his food while Amisra chatters about her puzzle box triumph. Keira is in the adjoining kitchen in case Amisra needs anything. I see her as the door opens and shuts. I try not to watch her. Fail spectacularly.
She doesn't sit with us. Of course she doesn't. She's the hired help, and even in Daryn's relatively progressive household, there are lines that don't get crossed. She eats separately, likely in the kitchen with the other servants who still treat her like a curiosity at best, an interloper at worst.
I want to invite her to join us. Want to pull out a chair and insist she belongs here, at this table, in this space. Want to see her face when Amisra tells her jokes or Daryn makes his sardonic observations about marketplace politics.
But I can't. It would make everything worse—for her, for the household dynamics, for the careful neutrality she's built to survive here. So I sit and eat and pretend I don't notice every time she enters the room, don't track her movements like a compass finding north.
After dinner, I settle Daryn in his study while Amisra has her bath. He looks better tonight—more color in his face, less tremor in his hands. The medicine is holding. For now.
"You're staring at my nanny again," he says without preamble, accepting the draught I've mixed. It glows faintly violet, infused with restorative properties and a prayer to the Healer that probably won't be answered.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Val. Please." He drinks the medicine in one swallow, grimacing at the taste. "You watch her like she's a scroll written in a language you're desperate to translate. It's not subtle."
I busy myself organizing the vials in my satchel, not meeting his eyes. "She's an interesting person."
