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)
Lucius passes me with a sighed grimace. “You’re not growing herbs. You’re just digging a grave.”
I swallow. “Then I’ll be the one to lie in it.”
With Akilah’s quiet support, I tend the garden every morning.
By the tenth day, the laughter fades, replaced by pity.
On the fifteenth day, Akilah crouches beside me, her breath caught.
A sliver of green has broken the cracked surface. Frail. Curled, as if it’s afraid of this place. We stare at it, not moving, not breathing—afraid even that might crush it.
It does.
I stare at the bed, the withered remains, my fingers coated in soil. Maybe Lucius was right. Maybe false hope is all there can be.
Akilah leans into me, defeated. “Does this mean you’ll bury yourself in those books again?”
It’s tempting. I admit it—I even thought that exact thing. But as the sun dips low and the light sharpens along the ruined walls, something inside me flares. Something stubborn. Something alive.
“Let’s try somewhere else,” I say, suddenly inspired. “New location. Better light. Different soil.” I glance across the courtyard to Lucius, already snoring in his sunny corner.
She follows my gaze. “You wouldn’t.”
A few hours later, I’m digging in the sunniest patch of earth while Lucius bemoans his lost napping place.
By the fifth week, herbs have sprouted in neat little rows. Pale green, bright against all the grey. The whispers have ceased. In their place . . . something like a held breath. Like hope.
Casimiria appears beside me, humming in approval, though a shadow of pain lingers in her eyes.
“He is right about you.” Her voice falters, her breath hitching sharply. She stumbles, and I catch her before she falls. My fingers seek her pulse.
“You’ve been hiding this,” I whisper, horrified.
“It’ll pass,” she says, her teeth gritted.
Her condition is worse than I feared.
“When did you last get the antidote?”
Her silence answers for her.
I swallow, my resolve hardening. “Then we’ll find another way.”
Casimiria’s pain started weeks ago and has only worsened. That she hid it from me . . .
She laughs weakly when I bring it up, her breath catching mid-sentence. “Nothing you could’ve done.”
At least I could have needled some acupoints, curbed her suffering a little.
I spend the night poring over armfuls of books from the forgotten library, the flickering candlelight blurring the text. Spells for healing burns, staving off infection, even for regrowing limbs—but nothing for her.
She groans and I’m at her side instantly, holding her hand as another spasm racks her body. Her face is pale, drawn, but she still finds my efforts to distract her amusing. I tell her how Quin once pretended to be an aklo to meet my family and how my mother took one look at him and declared he should marry Akilah.
“You spend a lot of time together,” she muses.
“Mostly accidentally,” I reply. “And definitely to his chagrin.”
She chuckles, though it’s cut short by another wave of pain.
The duke must have known; Quin’s façade of indifference wouldn’t fool him. This is punishment—a demonstration of power. No doubt Quin already knows.
He’ll be on his way back. At the news of his mother’s delayed medication, he would’ve torn away from his entourage, riding day and night, stopping only to change horses. And when he arrives, when Casimiria gets the antidote, he’ll . . .
Casimiria’s hiss snaps me out of the thought. Her fingers are crushed in my grip.
I loosen my hold. “Your son is smart,” I murmur. “He knows what to do.”
She gives me a faint smile, on the brink of sleep. “He’s a good man. I want him to live.”
I sit with her through the night, the sticky air pressing down, my knees aching from the weight of it all.
The first pale light of morning filters into the tower. I drag myself upright, wiping at my gritty eyes.
Casimiria squirms on her mat, her discomfort evident. I take her outside, hoping the fresh air and some food will help. Akilah and I coax her toward the herb patch, where we sit on a woven mat and I receive a lesson on how to play Chaos of the Escape.
I stare at the unfamiliar symbols on my wooden cards, groaning theatrically. “Akilah, help me!”
She laughs, reaching over to tap the card I should play.
Her help doesn’t last. Soon, she’s leaving me to fend for myself. I throw down a card at random.
Casimiria shakes her head, amused. “Try again.”
“This game’s aptly named,” I mutter.
Air stirs behind me, and I feel Akilah’s return. “Finally,” I say. “Which card?”
A hand points, and I freeze.
Not Akilah’s hand.
Blunt nails, calloused fingers, familiar strength.
I grab the fingers and still for a heart-quickening moment. Then I slowly turn.
I launch myself up to grab his face and check every inch of it for signs of ill health. His cheeks are flushed, lips full and smooth, but his eyes are heavy with fatigue. His spirit is laden with worry, and he’s depleted his magical energies.