Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
“You can diagnose by observation and pulse reading. You know which foods can aid health. You’ve helped those allergic to magic. You understand the healing properties of a thousand plants. The application might differ, but you have enough knowledge to give more than basic aid.”
My stomach churns, and I step back from the intensity of Quin’s observation.
“I don’t want to see you go against your principles.”
The lump in my throat is impossible to swallow.
“Y-you’re disappointed in me.”
Quin’s lips flatten, and a sudden surge of heat rushes to my eyes. I grit my teeth against it, but it’s too powerful. I twist my back to him, in time for the tear to land on the water’s surface.
I croak, “I . . . don’t know myself right now, either.” My stomach feels like it’s suffering a series of punches. “I don’t know.”
Quin’s arms come around my shaking body and he pulls me against his chest, holding tight. My tears fall thick and heavy, splashing onto his arms.
His cheek presses against the side of my head. “No matter if you are a vitalian or a healer by crude methods, as long as it’s your dream to heal, I’ll support you.”
“By being blunt?” I choke out.
“When you need it.” His arms shift slightly around me.
I clutch his forearms tightly and the punches in my stomach rise to my chest. I shove his arms open and step away, turning in his direction, my gaze cast low. He waits, unmoving.
My voice is lost somewhere in my throat, and all I can do is nod while I find it again. “You didn’t need to take me away.”
He’s quiet a moment, then he wades back to his end of the bath and resumes lounging with his head cast towards the ceiling. “Tomorrow we’ll help refugees move into huts near Thinking Hall.”
“That’s what you were organising when I tried to ‘destroy the royal seal’?”
Quin’s lips curve slightly. He knows he twisted the truth out of proportion.
I flick the surface of the water, spraying his grin.
He raises an eyebrow and sends a wave of water across the surface until it breaks over me.
I splutter, gulp in air, wipe at the drenched hair over my face, and climb out of the bath glaring daggers at his shut-eyed amusement.
Quin seats himself in the small dawn-soaked boat, and I clamber in across from him. He moves an oar out of my way, and winces. When he sets it down, he rolls his shoulder.
I recall his three bullseye shots yesterday. “You overdid it.”
“I did what I needed to.” He says it as a matter of fact, and my next breath slides along knotted threads in my stomach.
I focus on the winding canal, and then the approaching makeshift sanctuary. Bordered by the water, the back of Thinking Hall, cobbled streets, and a weathered luminarium is a large grassy area filled with patchwork tents and quickly constructed shelters. Bright fabrics are layered over the tents along with banners from refugee villages.
We rope the boat and step into the sanctuary. I was expecting to see a similar scene to yesterday—groups of people huddled together, sharing their stories over eager mouthfuls of porridge. Instead, moans grow louder as we near the centre, each one twisting tighter in my chest. The air is heavy with the scent of unwashed bodies and bile. A child cries nearby, clutching at his mother’s sleeve as she slumps against a tent post.
Quin’s cane hits the ground with a sharp tap, but his usual air of command is muted. He rests on his cane and observes the scene, frowning.
Something’s not right.
Ahead, in the shadows of Thinking Hall, Quin’s allies are sharing worried looks as they speak in hushed tones. They’re interrupted by a deep cry from a nearby tent. They race towards it, asking if anyone needs help, and a young man emerges carrying an elderly woman.
He drops to his knees and cries over her body.
I’m frozen a few tents away, a knot lodged in my throat.
If I’d done more yesterday . . . would Nannan still be alive?
I force myself to look away, but his grief is seared into my mind. Is this . . . my fault?
I glance at Quin, horrified, and he quietly wraps an arm around me, pulling me behind one of the tents.
Best he not see you and lay unfair blame.
Unfair? Would it be?
With a tight lump in my throat, I observe the man crying for his nannan while Quin’s allies bow their heads in silence.
“This is your fault,” he yells at them. “Your porridge took her life!”
Porridge? Quin and I share a sharp frown.
One of Quin’s supporters tries to calm him, but he is lost in his grief; other refugees are crawling out of their tents and hobbling over, moaning and clutching their stomachs.
“Look,” he says, jerking his finger around. “I thought you represented King Constantinos, thought he cared.”