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I knock my fist into his arm, a smile creeping onto my face as I say, “How about tomorrow?”

He levels a disapproving look at me.

“You were the one who said there’s been an influx of rebels. Who knows when they will attack next. If we’re going to travel north, I’m going to need to know how to defend myself. And next time I might not be so lucky,” I murmur.

He chews at his lip but nods his head. “Fine. If you’re feeling up for it after training with Marge. But I don’t want you pushing yourself.”

He leans in to kiss my forehead, and the door swings open. He pulls back quickly enough that when Marge walks back in, he’s sitting on the bed, his hands piled in his lap.

Marge shuffles over to us, flicking a wrist at Cole to excuse him off the bed. She presses a hand to my cheek, my forehead, and assesses my cuts. “She looks fine to me. How do you feel?”

“Good,” I answer.

“Great. I’d like you to start cleaning those vials over there.” She points to a basket on the counter.

“Now? But I—”

“Plenty of things that need to get done around here. But if you’re feeling that bad—”

“No, I’m fine.” I push up to my feet as Cole offers me his hand to help me up.

Away from the cover of my sheets, I realize I’m still wearing the nightgown from the night before. The hem is shredded, and old blood stains the material in blotches. Cole is already a step ahead, having had someone bring me a change of clothes for when I woke. After I encourage Cole several times to leave andget some rest, he throws me a hesitant look and leaves. I quickly change into a fresh set of pants and a tunic.

I scrub vials until Marge walks over to me. She pauses, watching my hands work while I wash the last one.

“Why did you come here last night?” she asks finally.

I turn toward her. “I umm…”

When our eyes lock I stop scrubbing. “I...I don’t know,” I admit.

She takes the last vial from me, tucks it into a drawer, and returns with two knives and a clump of mushrooms. We both slice in silence.

Her attention flickers over to me, and she stops cutting, dropping her blade to the counter.

“What?” I ask.

“You’re…cutting those wrong,” she mutters.

I don’t bother to mask my heavy sigh. I can’t do anything right in her eyes, and it’s starting to wear on me. “You’re telling me there’s a right way to cut mushrooms?”

“Well, if you keep chopping like that, you might cut your finger off,” she quips, shuffling over to me.

She wraps her hands around mine, puppeteering each motion. “Here.”

For the first time, she isn’t wearing her black gloves. Angry scars wrap around the backs of her hands. The rugged skin is raised and jagged, and the color blends in with the rest of her hands. I always assumed she wore gloves for sanitary reasons. With how often she must come into contact with body fluids and illnesses, I never questioned it.

She notices my stare and lifts a hand closer to my face to observe. I flinch back, embarrassed to be caught staring.

“Dragons,” she says and goes back to slicing her own mushrooms.

I check over my shoulder to make sure it’s only us in the room. “You were attacked?”

“No.” She grins, as if her brilliant mind hid all the secrets of the world, and she’s just waiting for someone to ask her the right questions. “Dragonblood.”

I stop chopping. “Dragonblood?”

“Shh! Keep your voice down,” she scolds.