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“You want to know how non-linea use these very same plants to heal?”

“No. I want to offer the shiny spells, but to people who can’t afford them.”

I am like most people. I also couldn’t turn away from spells. I should have begged him to tell me all those other ways to heal. Should have listened better when he tried. Maybe then, I’d know what to do. How to ensure Akilah’s safety.

I pause, knife-tip hovering over puffy skin. River’s singing breaks too; when Akilah stirs, his boyishly angelic voice resumes.

Things we step on without a second thought have protected kings and revived queens.

I look around. The walls and floor are stone, old and crumbly. The floor is covered in straw that looks as though it hasn’t been changed in... a while. There must be a lot of life in it. Insects, fungi. And maybe beneath that...

I shift some hay and dig into the dirt that’s formed a layer below. Under the soil are old flagstones, and under the ones that are old enough to crumble—

My bare fingers smart from the cold and the rough stone scrapes my skin, but soon enough I feel something—spongy, moist. Worm truffle. Grandfather was always seeking it, hoarding it. He said the juice...

I lift two black lumps out of the little hole I’ve dug in the floor and cradle them against my chest. This, I remember. “I can use the juice, squeeze it onto the wound.”

“And that’ll cure the infection?”

I frown, unsure. My mind scrambles to list all the things that could go wrong. I don’t want to make another mistake like the one that landed Akilah in prison in the first place. Under normal circumstances, I’d pull out books, double check properties... I don’t have any books here, nor the time to find any.

“It’s all we have; if I cut the infection out, I could just be making another wound to get infected—it’s filthy down here.”

I crush the truffles in my trembling fist. The juice seeps out slowly; I drip the precious liquid onto Akilah’s wound, my heart hammering in my chest.

“Keep singing,” I murmur to River. I need calming too.Please work, please.

River’s voice floats around us like a spell of its own. It thickens the air, a natural sedative. Even the guards have grown quiet. It lets my thoughts wander and I collect all the half-ignored lessons of crude healing, stack those pieces of conversations together. There aren’t a lot of them.When I get out, I’ll broaden my knowledge on ways to heal.

I hope I’m not lying to myself.

River grows hoarse, and I check Akilah’s pulse. Still slow, but steady. And a trace of colour has returned to her lips. I bow my head against her shoulder in relief, murmuring my thanks to the heavens.

A guard interrupts my thanksgiving. “Is he still infectious?”

I shake my head.

The redcloak lets out a relieved breath. “Visiting hours are over.”

River and I glance anxiously at our sleeping Akilah, and then we’re herded out of the cell and down the corridor.

It’s darker and damper than it was on our way in. Two masked men appear from the shadows, stopping us in the passageway. They’re haloed with metallic-scented magic, recently used. I choke on a whiff of blood and shiver. One barks, “Are these the ones?”

River grabs my arm so tight, his fingers are forming bruises. I recall the strange way the outer guards looked at our pass.

“Yes, sir,” a redcloak says.

River whimpers. I whisper in his ear, “What’s wrong?”

“Those masks—”

They pull and tug at our clothing until they find the beads and rip them off River’s belt. They look at one another darkly. “Lock them up.”

Sweating redcloaks snap their heels and push us back to Akilah’s cell, shoving us inside with rough hands. They ignore our protests and explanations, and as the metal bar grinds into place, a cold realisation settles over me.

We’re not visitors anymore.

* * *