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CHAPTER ELEVEN

Tessa

Ilose track of how many days pass. Maybe four, maybe five, maybe an entire month. I go to work, I mix the potions for Mistress Solomon, and then I walk woodenly back to my rented room where I fall into bed. The vials and scales and bottles for real remedies sit untouched on my side table. Herbs and leaves and petals dry up and crumble on their own, worthless.

I haven’t returned to the workshop. Every time I try, my breathing goes short and my legs refuse to work. Too much . . . ?Wes.

I haven’t listened to the names of those lost to the fever, read at the end of each week. There are many, though. Without Weston and me delivering a daily dose, the number of people dying has surely risen.

The guilt is almost as bad as the loss. I’ve hardly eaten. I’ve hardly slept.

When I do, I dream of Wes, of the warmth in his hands or the light in his eyes or the promise in his words. And then the dreams shift into nightmares, where a man in black drives daggers into Wes’s eyes while he lies there screaming for mercy.

I hope he didn’t beg. I hope he didn’t give that evil prince the satisfaction.

This is the only thought that chases away some of my sorrow, letting rage pour in to fill the gap.

Weston’s death is different from my parents.

Weston’s death is different from them all.

I wish I’d listened. I wish we’d stayed in the workshop.

I want to wish he hadn’t kissed me, but I can’t. Every now and again, I touch my fingertips to my lips, as if the feel of him still lingers there. My throat always closes up and I choke on my tears, but I can’t move my fingers, as if this tiny memory will soon be gone, too.

“Tessa. Tessa.” Karri’s whisper takes a moment to break through my thoughts.

I clear my throat. “Sorry.”

She studies me with clear concern. She’s asked me a dozen times what happened, but I’ve already risked so much. I can’t tell her anything. The night patrol is still doubled. I’ve heard rumors of other bodies stretched along the gate, but I have zero desire to discover what Wes’s remains have been reduced to, so I haven’t gone to see.

She knows something happened, though.

Her eyes flick down to the thimbleweed roots I’m grinding together. It’s supposed to be a tincture to help someone with their complexion. As if someone’s skin matters while people are dying.

“That’s too much,” says Karri, her voice a hushed whisper. “You’ll end up killing someone.”

Good.Maybe I’ll spare them from the fever. Or the king.

It’s a dangerous thought, and one I’ve had too often lately. I dump out my bowl to start over.

“Tessa!” cries Mistress Solomon from across the room. “That’s my best thimbleweed!”

I can’t make myself care. Wes is dead. My parents are dead. The world is gray and empty and cold. I cut a new stretch of root.

She hurries across the shop to stand over me. “Honestly, girl, your brain is gone lately. You’re not with child, are you?”

I nearly burst into tears and choke on them to stop any from falling. With child. As if. As if. Without warning, I snort with laughter, and a tear snakes down my cheek.

She’s staring at me, mouth partially agape. So is Karri.

I swipe at my face haphazardly. “Sorry. No. What?”

“That order is for the Royal Sector!” she says. “You’d best pay attention!”

Knowing it’s for someone in the Royal Sector makes me want to light it all on fire. I grind at it half-heartedly.

But then my brain seizes on what Karri just said. You’ll end up killing someone. I glance down at the pile of discarded grindings. She’s right. The wrong combination can turn a tincture to a poison without much effort. There’s a reason I insisted on measuring and weighing the elixirs Wes and I used to distribute.