And it plunged straight into the water.
Lysa’s shriek split the chamber, shrill and shattering, bouncing off the walls until the sound seemed to claw through my skull and scrape down my spine. She crumpled sideways, gaping at her hand, her body writhing as steam hissed upwhere her skin met the bath. The flesh bloomed scarlet before our eyes, blisters swelling and rising like furious pearls.
The other girls screamed with her and one stumbled back and nearly tripped over her chiton, while another froze in place, her hands clamped uselessly at her mouth.
The water itself seemed to writhe. It frothed and churned as though alive, the surface no longer clear but slick, filmed with something oily and unnatural that hadn’t been there a breath before.
I dropped to my knees beside her, gripping her shoulders and hauling her back with all my strength. I was careful to not let another inch of her skin graze the water that had already marked her.
“My lady,” Alcmene gasped. “What should we do?”
“Look in there,” I said, pointing at the apothecary chest tugged beneath the basin shelf. She grabbed it frantically, pulling out satchels of dried yarrow, comfrey root, lavender buds, grabbing fistfuls of whatever she could.
“Hold her while I grind these. The oils will draw out the heat,” I ordered, and Alcmene held Lysa down as I took the pestle and crushed the herbs with shaking hands, withstanding the urge to vomit. I pressed the mixture gently over Lysa’s red, seared skin, but she shrieked and twisted away. Blisters rose in defiance of our efforts, and her sobs were wet and ragged.
“It’s not working,” I choked, panic crawling cold beneath my skin as I pressed the cloth to Lysa’s blistered hand. Her screams only grew harsher, raw enough to tear her throat.
My head whipped toward the girls huddled against the wall. “Don’t just stand there—go! Fetch the poison master! Now!”
“He went with the king,” one of the servants whispered, her eyes shining with fear.
“Then one of the priestesses!” I snapped, though I doubted they had the power to do anything about this.
“No,” Alcmene said.
The girl I’d shouted at froze mid-step, wide-eyed, caught between us.
I rounded on her. “No? She’s burning alive, Alcmene—we need someone who can stop this!”
Alcmene’s hand shot out, gripping my wrist hard enough to still me. Her eyes were steady, unblinking. “The priestesses can’t help her. Not with this.” She swallowed, her voice low but certain. “We need him. We need Theron.”
I reared back as if the very name had burned me. “No—”
Lysa screamed again, shrill enough to shake the walls, her body arching against the floor. The sound ripped straight through me, stealing the rest of my words.
My chin dipped once, stiff and unwilling. Alcmene caught it instantly and she was gone, bolting through the doorway. I pressed my forehead to Lysa’s, ignoringthe rancid scent radiating from her injured hand. “Hold on. We’re getting help. Just breathe.”
It felt like an eternity as we waited. I had no idea how long had passed—ten minutes? Thirty? The light outside was crawling inch by inch across the wall.
“Where is he?” I whispered to no one, anxiety laced beneath every syllable.
At last, footsteps stirred in the hall. Much too slow for the occasion.
The door creaked open, swinging wide, and Theron emerged, drifting across the threshold with Alcmene right behind him.
Black fabric hung loose from his shoulders, the unbelted tunic shifting with each step. A single silver ring caught the light as he lifted his hand to the doorframe, pausing there as if for effect. His lips curled as his gaze found mine.
“I knew you couldn’t go an entire day without wanting to see me,” he said smugly as he leaned casually against the doorframe, his eyes sweeping up and down my body until I became very aware of the fact that I was still in nothing but my robe.
“I need you to help her!” I growled as I rose to my feet, pointing at Lysa.
The gloating satisfaction slid from his face as he glanced down at the young girl. She was shaking and moaning, taking shallow, panicked breaths that were more like sobs as she clutched her blistered hand to her chest. The scent of scorched herbs clung to the air.
Theron crouched beside her in a single fluid motion, all pretense gone. No careless grin, no mocking tilt of his head. Just focus, hard and fast, his expression sharpening at the gray pallor to her skin. He pulled the cloth from her hand, inspecting the angry, red damage underneath. She whimpered.
“You used herbs?” he asked.
“Yes. It made it worse.”
