Page 74

I’m robbed of voice.

Quin reaches for the fraying knot of my cloak, his fingers brushing my throat as he undoes it. Carefully, he arranges the cloak over my shoulders and attaches the clasp. Again, his skin whispers over mine, and our gazes hook. My breath falters at this softness, and as if realising he’s let his mask slip, he pulls back decisively. “It was annoying me.”

Tension whooshes out of me, and I hear myself chuckle. “Maybe my boots can annoy you next.”

Quin flicks my forehead away from him and I scramble to my feet. “Order up black cumin, milk thistle, and mint tea. Let’s help this boy’s mother.”

* * *

Quin is quiet and reflective at my side as we follow the boy’s directions to the outskirts of the city. As the wealth of the inner capital fades, the solemn lines on his face deepen. Wind rattles through huts slapped together from wood and straw, and hacking coughs come through thin walls. Threadbare clothes are pegged to sagging, criss-crossing lines, and groups of thinly clad children kick at a clump of dead grass in place of a ball.

We spot Quin’s scarred aklo outside a small hut, whittling a stick of wood. Behind them, an elderly, hunch-backed man tends a pot boiling over a fire of sticks. A rich nutty scent hits the back of my nose; I steer myself to the pot and crouch beside the man.

He prods the fire. “I’ve seen you outside the gates of the scholar prefecture. My grandson wants to follow in your footsteps.”

Quin’s gaze cuts to us and then to the fire before he turns back to Aklo and Niki.

“I hope you are not an exception.” Tired eyes that have seen too much untimely death meet mine. “So many are willing to save lives—have the potential—and are yet unable. To be frank, we need to place greater importance on healers than on vitalians.”

“Vitalian spells are superior. If more par-linea could—”

A dismissive laugh. “We can’t rely on magic. I’ve prepared the verdeflora.”

My stomach tightens. I frown and quietly take the tea he’s prepared, scalding my tongue on a large gulp.

It’s damp and mouldy in the hut Niki and his mother share; the blankets covering her are coated in a film of moisture. Quin takes one look around and excuses himself, voice raspy. It takes me an hour but when I’m finally done, the mother’s condition has significantly improved.

“Air the house every day and hang the blankets outside,” I murmur. “Spend an hour each morning out in the sunshine.”

Niki throws himself onto the bed and hugs her tightly through doting kisses to his forehead.

When I leave the hut, the elderly man is still at the fire. “How did you know to drink black cumin and milk thistle before seeing her?”

He recognised the spell I used. “I noticed the yellowing around Niki’s eyes and suspected his mother would suffer similar malnutrition. The black cumin will help with that and the milk thistle will help the verdeflora heal her liver.”

He hums. “You knew we wouldn’t have any here.”

I look down.

Quin comes closer. “I’ll have seeds delivered to everyone in the neighbourhood.”

The hunched man glances at him, then back to the fire.

Gently, I palm Quin’s shoulder. “We should go.”

Frustrated, distraught eyes fly to mine. Quin’s jaw hardens stubbornly against the urge to speak. He snaps his cane, pivoting away. I sigh.

He keeps a harried pace, but he senses my approach.

“Why?” he barks.

“No one dares to hope anymore.”

“I thought it was the last thing to go.”

“It is.”

He looks away from me and dark shadows swallow his face. We’re quiet on our way to the canal. Once he’s seated in a rowboat, he orders his aklo away with instructions to deliver my grandfather’s books to my bedchamber, and prepare the tunnel.