Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
A sharp jab at the back of my neck.
Darkness.
I stir slowly, my body sluggish and heavy. Blinking, I take in a blurred, cone-like ceiling. Where—? Memories rush back: Lucius’s fraud, the warmth of someone landing behind me.
That wind.
Manmade. Magical.
My heart skips. Nicostratus? No—he wouldn’t knock me out. I push myself upright, voice thick with chastisement and lingering relief. “Quin?”
But it isn’t.
Across the small circular room, seated at a table strewn with wood shavings, is the curious woman from the cellar. She carves methodically, her expression unreadable.
I bolt off the sleeping mat, but the sudden movement sends me to my knees. I rub the sore spot on my neck. “You knocked me out?”
Something about her face—the mouth, the jawline.
The realisation hits like a blow. “You’re the king’s mother.”
Her lips twitch, almost amused. “Casimiria will do,” she says simply, without looking up.
I swallow hard, remembering the weight of Quin’s pain when we met near the canals. He must have been coming from here.
“You must be the one my son talks about,” she says, setting down her work and the knife.
My throat tightens. “He . . . talks about me?”
She arches an eyebrow. “What were you thinking out there?”
I glance at the narrow, arched window overlooking the courtyard, the fog-laden island stretching beyond it. “There’s so much sickness. It can be cured if we act swiftly.”
“You’re earnest,” she says, meeting my gaze. “You’re wrong.”
Her bluntness stings.
She folds her arms. “The duke forbids medicinal herbs here. If redcloaks find anyone trying to bring some in, they kill one of us as a ‘lesson’. Most don’t even know what rule they broke. What do you think would happen if they found out the herbs were never here at all?”
The weight of her words presses down on me.
“Hope,” she murmurs, “is all we’ve got. No other cure can grow on this forsaken rock. Magic might be mighty, but it’s nothing with no plants to feed it.” Her voice softens, but her gaze holds steady. “At least they feel better, believing they’re healing. Lucius is right about that.”
The capsules, the gambling, the smoke, the laughter—this is the only medicine Lucius has to work with.
I slump back onto the mat, her words twisting uncomfortably in my chest.
She smirks faintly. “Your intention was good. Your execution . . .” She lets the thought hang.
I push to my feet, restless. “But is this not . . . giving in?”
Casimiria looks at me, and lets out a single laugh. “He said you don’t hold back.”
I push to my feet. “What if Quin brought seeds? We could grow our own herbs.”
Casimiria sighs and pulls a small box from a shelf, opening it to reveal neatly labelled sachets. “We tried once. Nothing grew.”
“Try again.”
Her gaze sharpens. “Try until we die?”
I grab the box and hold it just out of reach. “What do we have to lose?”
For a moment, she studies me, her expression softening into something close to respect. Finally, she laughs—a low, almost reluctant sound. “Fine. Take the seeds. But don’t expect magic.”
“Here you are.”
I whirl from my solitary work clearing, digging and pressing seeds into the rocky soil to find Nicostratus leaping down from a stone wall, his descent as smooth as a breeze. My heart lurches as he pulls me into a crushing embrace.
He captures my hand and moves it to his chest. His gaze rolls over me slowly, as if to make sure I haven’t been hurt. His eyes snag on my cloak, then lift to mine. “Constantinos demanded we continue south, but I . . . couldn’t. I had to come back for you.”
My stomach heaves and falls sharply.
I can picture them in their saddles, in light armour, the messenger on his own horse expressionlessly reciting the news. Nicostratus would’ve begged for more information while Quin’s knuckles would only whiten around his reins. Quin would have collected himself first, understanding the implications. Understanding the duke wants to use me against him.
Continuing south was smart. No doubt, Quin will even lengthen his visit. Maybe the duke will forget about me, if my unimportance is made clear.
I nod and nod.
I look away. He tugs me gently closer and cups my cheek.
“I’ll find a way to free you,” he whispers. “I promise.”
I swallow thickly.
He kneels and swings a satchel off his shoulder. “They confiscated your things, but they waved this through.” He grinds his teeth. “To rub in what you can’t do on the island.”
I kneel beside him as he unpacks it. My breath hitches when I see the worn spines of my grandfather’s healing journals.
I reach out slowly, fingers brushing the cover. “How did you find these?”
“Florentius guessed they’d be coming—he took some of your things first.”
Emotion rises thick in my throat. “Thank you,” I whisper. “Both of you.”
Nicostratus nods, and then, hesitantly, whispers. “This island is ancient, Cael.”
He looks around and I follow his gaze past the ruins, trying to imagine how this place once stood proud and whole. He lowers his voice even further. “Ask Casimiria.”