“What does it look like?”
Amaris shoved the journal in his face, pointing to the small yellowflowers sketched on the page. She flipped through the book, perusing the various pictures and recipes. Her eyes stopped on a description of the best method to suture a cut to the abdomen. A knot twisted in her gut. A mystique wasn’t some ordinary medical professional or even the level of a paramedic. They were physicians.
She stepped into the nearly pristine tower, ignoring the stacks of crates to her right. The wall of shelves looked perfectly symmetrical after her constant organizing. She set about pulling them down, reading the labels, and comparing the flowers to the picture in the journal.
“Can you grab those for me?” she asked Theodoric. He reached up and pulled down several jars with specks of yellow on the leaves. He set them beside her, then leaned against the counter and waited for his next order in silence.
“You said you lost the mystique in the war. You were there?” she pried.
His thumb brushed what appeared to be a drawing etched into his knife’s hilt, circling the worn carving.
So that little habit has to do with the war.
“Yes,” he finally answered. He slid up his sleeve and scratched his arm, but the faintest glimpse of a jagged scar began on his upper forearm and disappeared under his shirt.
Amaris averted her gaze. “Where were you stationed?”
“Fort Berland in Lungvik,” he answered sharply. “Have you found it yet?”
Startled at his tone, she dropped the flowers, and they scattered across the wooden counter. “I believe these are it,” she said, swallowing her breath.
“You believe?”
“Okay, yes.” She dragged her finger across the label. “But we’ll need more ingredients. It says we need pygmy peppermint and thorn marjoram. I don’t remember seeing those when I organized everything.”
“They’re common kitchen herbs. Ms. Borstad will have them in the garden.”
He pulled from the counter, his belt jingling and his steps heavy as he started toward the stairs. Amaris paused before following him, pinching a bufomom flower between her fingers. Its petals were like velvet, its color a vibrant yellow. She dropped the flower back into the jar and caressed the shiny, white scars scattering her knuckles, Theodoric’s thick scar still prevalent in her mind.
§
Amaris kneeled beforethe planter and dug her fingers into the dirt. The fresh breeze ruffled through her hair, and her fingers embraced the cool soil. Theodoric was perched on a short stone wall on the edge of the garden. His complexity was an understatement. She’d spent the entire trek examining how he walked, the way his hands clenched, and how his eyes cleared each door he passed.
The paramedic within her couldn’t help analyzing him. He rubbed his shoulders, attempting to massage the strained muscles. It was hard to believe he was so young and had been to an actual war.
“Good, he’s letting you out for some fresh air.” Adelaide grinned, plopping beside Theodoric.
He gave her a gentle smile, breaking the crust he held firm in his jaw. She kicked her legs against the gray stones, knocking the sand from her boots.
“We’re creating a tonic,” Amaris announced, still digging up the thorn marjoram. It was a tricky root, burrowed in the ground. She planned to gather as much as she could, especially since the disease seemed to be highly contagious. She needed her strength to be alert. If eyes were watching her every moment, she wanted to be prepared.
“What for?”
“Scrying fever,” Amaris said, ripping up one of the roots. Dirt flew everywhere as she collapsed back. She cringed as the back of her head smacked the ground.
“Good one.” Adelaide laughed. “Next you’re going to tell me nether madness is running rampant.” She folded over in laughter, only ceasing when she saw Amaris’s muscles stiffen as she laid still in the grass. “You’re serious?”
“What’s nether madness?” Amaris hoped it wasn’t something else she had to deal with.
“Nothing we’ll ever have to worry about here,” Theodoric cut in.
“It’s a disease that makes you go crazy till you…” Adelaide slid her hand across her throat, crossing her eyes and sticking out her tongue.
“You die from delirium?”
“Or you kill yourself, whichever comes first.” Adelaide smirked and smacked Theodoric on the back. “Like he said, not around here. But please indulge me. Who in the realm has scrying fever?”
“Esaias,” Theodoric said gruffly.
