“But it’s winter, isn’t it?” the second woman with brown hair I just met—Willow—asks.
I shrug it off. “Yes. Though, I suppose it’s a grand example that whoever is tending them is quite skilled.”
Aelia strolls further into the gardens, into a section we haven’t been before. “How do you know so much about flowers? Were you a botanist or florist of some sort?”
“No. Just found enjoyment in learning about them. A botanist I knew back in Kilamber used to buy a loaf of bread every week from my family, and she would share all sorts of information with me.” A small smile lifts my lips as the memory of her flows back to me as we walk. “She was a widow and never had children. I think she was lonely, and most people didn’t want to spend time with her.”
“Your family were bakers?” Willow asks.
I nearly pause. The memory slipped off my tongue so easily I hadn’t even processed that a sliver of my life was there. “Yes, I suppose they were.”
“I still don’t remember anything outside of my name and where I’m from,” Beatrice blows out in a breath.
“It’ll come, just be patient.” Aelia pats her shoulder.
We are at the edge of the farthest part of the garden when Willow stops and crouches down near a flower bed. As we all crowd in around her to admire whatever has caught her attention, I fling forward and grab her shoulder as she reaches out, yanking her back so roughly she falls into my legs.
“Lyra!” Beatrice exclaims and bends down to help Willow up as do I.
“Sorry, that flower is a poppy!” I blurt.
Willow stands, brushing her dress down. “I know, I thought it was pretty. They’re outside the northern outskirts of Mossmead, where I’m from.”
“That’s not just any regular poppy,” I whisper, shaking my head. “That’s an opium poppy.”
Aelia’s face scrunches up. “What’s the difference?”
I point at the stalks of the flower. “If the sap got on her and she ingested it, it could be fatal. You don’t handle opium poppies without gloves on.”
“Oh…” Willow breathes, nodding her head. “Alright. Thank you, then, Lyra. Why don’t we keep walking?”
As we stroll on, I can’t help but note the location of the gardens. Etching it into my memory.
Because opium poppies are normally only harvested for two things.
Sedation and pain relief. Perhaps that was what was mixed into our wine the first time we woke. But it wouldn’t explain how we were healed. That would have been a thing of divine intervention. Or magic.
Like dragonblood.
I can’t ignore the idea sticking in my mind once it’s there, especially so fresh after our lesson with Lady Bethany.
“I need to speak with the General,” I whisper to one of the guards posted outside my room before we’re to report for dinner.
Two of them lead, one in front of me and one behind, through hallways I haven’t been down before. Trying to memorize it is difficult with so many turns we take and how massive this castle is.
As we turn down one corridor, there’s the sound of shattering glass from somewhere farther down. The guard in front of me races forward to an open door on the left, drawing his sword. The guard behind me grabs me by the shoulder and edges me back and against the far wall as he withdraws his own blade.
My heart leaps into my chest at their reaction. But at this angle, I can see straight through the half-open door.
The guard in front strides forward and, upon seeing what’s inside, lowers his sword and closes the door. But not quick enough to stop me from getting a few seconds glimpse.
It's a small room with shelves lined in glass bottles. All of which are filled to the brim with red liquid. Two lady’s maids are on their hands andknees collecting glass shards, with one of them having a massive splatter of red against her dress.
Like blood.
The guard beside me sheathes his blade and urges me forward, but I can’t swallow the fear gripping my throat.
It’s not dragonblood.
