Page 26

I stare at the enormous house before me. Do I dare go inside the hospital without Enola?

“No. Don’t. Probably best to wait for her out here,”

Tristan says, jumping down off his mount. He grabs the reins of both our horses and guides them to the hitching post. Other horses graze at the far end.

“Did you just read my thoughts?”

Tristan smirks at me, looking way too handsome in the morning sun. “You thought it, then you sent it as a memory.”

“I—I did not.”

“You may not have meant to, but you did. Everything the connection offers us will come easier now—so I’ve been told.”

His eyes flash at the reminder of what we did to create that change.

A flush warms my body.

Well, this is a significant upgrade, I say through a memory, then laugh at how effortless that was. We may never have to speak out loud again. Or wonder about how the other is doing. At even the thought of it, I know his every ache and discomfort—which is mostly a lingering tiredness from our lack of sleep and a half portion of my more stubborn symptoms left over from the poison. It’s there, ready for me to take. Share. There’s no searching inside him to locate anything, including what he’s feeling. His happiness, peace, and contentedness flow through me as strongly as if they were my own.

He reaches for my waist and practically lifts me down from the saddle. Our bodies brush as my feet touch the ground. He doesn’t release me.

“Good morning,”

Enola says, riding up.

Tristan and I break apart, me a little quicker than him. “Morning,”

I say, as my cheeks burn.

What were we thinking? We should keep our hands to ourselves in public, I send to him.

Tristan shrugs, looking entirely too smug. “We’re newlyweds. I’m sure Enola remembers what that’s like.”

It’s not possible for me to see if that’s true because I can’t meet Enola’s eyes right now. My face must be close to the shade of a spring rhuberry.

With a tug, Tristan pulls me into him for a quick kiss, not the least bit concerned that Enola is a witness. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“No,”

Caro says after one look at me. “Not today. Dr. Henshaw doesn’t have time to be tripping over you again.”

Caro’s short-sleeved shirt is trimmed with large pockets, and the tip of a temperature gauge—a fancier one than any I’ve seen before—sticks out of one. It astonishes me that she chose this job of taking care of people and wasn’t forced to do it at knifepoint.

And that someone thought she should be in charge.

“Actually, Caro, I’m not asking,”

Enola says, her voice calm but firm.

My eyes go wide at Enola before I rein in my face.

A muscle in Caro’s cheek twitches.

“We’re just here to help,”

I add. “We won’t be in anyone’s way.”

Caro’s steely gaze jumps to me, then back to Enola. “Fine. She can dump the bedpans and change all the sheets. But stay away from Dr. Henshaw. He’s too busy today.”

She takes a step. “I have to go.”

Enola and I exchange a dubious look as Caro descends the stairs. When she’s fully out of earshot, Enola’s grin turns conspiratorial. “Well, go find Dr. Henshaw.”

“But—”

She waves me off. “Despite what Caro thinks, she answers to me. I’ll deal with her if she gives you any trouble.”

Stars. It’s a good thing I have friends in higher places than my enemies. “Okay,”

I say, rubbing my hands together, my excitement building.

The next two hours pass quickly. Dr. Henshaw was not, in fact, too busy to let me shadow him, and although he didn’t seem thrilled to see me again, he has since almost grinned twice. A small victory.

The first time was after he used a scalpel to drain a pocket of infection on a man’s leg, then asked me what antibacterium I would recommend. It was a test. Luckily, I recalled three possibilities that work well on the likely bacilli, unsure if I was pronouncing the names correctly. I had only ever read them in a textbook. He didn’t react, so I went on to list the herbs that could be used if medications weren’t available.

“I would also pack the wound with a poultice of widowspore, venite, calenmedia flower, and maybe some fenugreek seed. Obviously, herbs take longer to clear the infection and are riskier if the infection has gone deep into the tissues. But if it’s all you have, it’s worth a shot before amputation.”

The corner of his mouth tugged up the smallest amount. Possibly a prolonged twitch. “Right,”

he said. Then he blinked and told a nurse named Felicity to grab some granucillin.

Not long after, I discovered the oxygen condenser.

“How does it work?”

I asked, dropping down in front of the oversize brown box growling in the corner beside an older woman crocheting. I’d read about the importance of oxygen therapy, especially for people with lung conditions and heart failure, but I thought for sure any oxygen storage canisters would be extinct by now. Turns out they are—but there’s an alternative.

“It reduces the nitrogen from the air it takes in, allowing for a higher concentration of oxygen. There used to be seven, but we’re down to three. We sterilize and reuse the tubing.”

My head jerked up. “How do you sterilize things?”

“We have a pressure pot that uses the power of steam.”

Steam. “My mother and I boiled our bandages, but to be able to utilize the power of steam to sterilize—revolutionary.”

“Yes, well.”

Dr. Henshaw looked away and gave a silent huff that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. It turned into a cough.

I asked to see this special sterilizing pot, and that’s how I ended up in a back room with a young nurse who’s biting her nails down to the quick—Felicity.

Spinning around, I take in the white cupboards and shelves filled with supplies. There’s so much here. It’s like I’ve magically jumped into the pages of my medical textbooks.

“Those are the pressure pots we use to clean the instruments,”

Felicity mutters. She points at the metal devices on the narrow counter.

“And how do they—”

But before I can finish my question, she’s gone. I stare after her as she speeds down the hall. Guess I’m not making any new friends today.

Dr. Henshaw steps into the room and grabs a large leather bag out of the corner. He opens it, then a few cupboards, collecting supplies, before reluctantly acknowledging my staring. “I have to make some house calls. And I have a meeting with your husband. I’ll be away the rest of the day.”

Oh. I wait, hoping he’ll invite me along, but within seconds I’m left alone. Deciding to take advantage of being unsupervised, I do a slow lap of the storage room. When no one comes to kick me out, I grow bolder and venture into the cupboards. Bandages, expired medicine, and small metal tools like scissors, scalpels, and clamps line the shelves. If it can be cleaned, it’s reused—even the syringes.

I come across a manual for a machine that mists medications to be inhaled and read every word on how to use it. It makes me think of two-year-old Roman back in Hanook and how unsafe it is for him to sit over a boiling pot of callendon root to breathe in the steam. But if his fire-damaged lungs could have the herbs cold-misted, this could change his life.

There has to be a way to bring these advances back to the clans.

Eventually, I become worried about getting caught alone in here. I wouldn’t put it past someone to accuse me of stealing or sabotaging the equipment.

Wandering down the hall, I peek into the open doors, looking for Enola, but when I reach the opposite end, I don’t find her. In fact, I haven’t come across any hospital workers at all. Where is everyone? Maybe I should check downstairs.

But then Felicity appears out of a room I hadn’t checked yet and steps into my path, eyes locked on the floor. “Umm . . . you’re wanted in the sunroom.”

“Okay.”

That must be where Enola is. “Where’s that?”

I try to sound friendly despite her obvious aversion to me. Skies, I have never missed Freia more.

She turns away before answering. “First door on your left after the stairs.”

It’s the room she just came out of.

I approach the closed door and knock on the hollow oak. “Hello?”

Turning the door handle, I step inside. Bright sunlight pours in from the large window taking up most of the wall. Standing next to it is Annette.

My stomach sinks.

Suddenly something sharp pokes my shoulder, causing pain to shoot down my arm. I jerk away.

Caro sneers with frustration as she holds up the half-empty syringe to Annette. “She moved away too quickly. But it’s probably enough.”

“What are you doing?”

I demand, covering the throbbing puncture mark with my hand. Outrage and fear flood my body. “What . . . what did you inject me with?”

Caro glares and slams the door shut.

My gaze darts around the room, and to my horror I find Enola facedown in the corner. I rush toward her, but Annette and another nurse I’ve only seen in passing block my way.

“It appears you’ve lost your mind.”

Annette’s face is stone cold, but the strained, high timbre of her voice betrays her nerves. “You’re a violent, psychotic girl who attacked the only person who’s ever been nice to you. It’s really sad.”

“What?”

My heart spasms as I spot the small pool of blood leaking from Enola’s head onto the floor. “No,”

I whisper.

“Yes,”

Annette says. “You can’t be trusted. We told everyone that. If only they had listened.”

A light, airy buzzing begins at the base of my skull. Whatever they gave me is starting to take effect. With a deliberate breath, I attempt to steady my erratic heart. I have to help Enola.

We have to get out of here.

“You thought no one saw the attack,”

Annette continues, “but all of us are witnesses. You were vicious. Calculated.”

They have me cornered. Even though I know it’s pointless, I reach for the connection to Tristan, but there’s nothing there. We’re too far apart. I notice a second empty syringe, lying on the table. Did they hit Enola hard enough to knock her unconscious? Or did they give her something after they hit her to help her stay down?

“Have you checked that she’s breathing?”

Annette ignores me, but a slight movement of Enola’s chest eases my panic.

Caro moves, and dizziness swirls through my head as I try to keep her in my sights. The sensation is almost pleasant. Could they have given me a sedative? An injectable form of poppy extract? “What do you want from me? To leave?”

The three women share a tense look—I’m right.

“Fine. I’ll go.”

I’ll say anything to get Enola help and get me out of this room, preferably somewhere I can talk to Tristan. He’ll help me figure this out.

The tension around Caro’s eyes relaxes. I’m playing right into their hands. What exactly are they planning?

“I’ll go as soon as you take Enola to Henshaw,” I amend.

Annette shakes her head and pulls a knife from one of the big pockets in the bottom of her shirt. “That’s not how this is going to work. You’ll go now. I’ll escort you, and only once you’ve crossed the border fence will we help Enola. Fight or take too long, and she dies.”

She raises the knife to my neck.

“The story of how you attacked our treasured founding family member is already spreading. And if Enola survives, she won’t be able to correct it. She doesn’t know who hit her.”

“Go,”

Caro barks at me. “You’re done convincing everyone that the clans need to be spared. And don’t even think about coming back. There isn’t a soldier guarding the border fence who won’t shoot you now on sight.”

So that’s what this is about—at least to Caro. Even with the growing fuzziness in my head, it’s clear time is running out. Not just for Enola, but also for me.

I will not lose consciousness around these monsters.

“Then let’s go.”

I spin on my heel and the room spins with me. My hand flies out to grab the wall. Inhaling through my nose, I say a quick prayer for Enola. Please be okay.

Not a single person is visible as Annette leads me down the stairs and we exit the house. More seeds of betrayal to take root. How many people were in on this?

We reach the horses. The sun is too pleasant and welcoming for this hellfire nightmare.

Annette stomps ahead of me. “I warned you something like this would happen if you didn’t follow through with leaving. Now get on the horse.”

Slowly, I mount Tristan’s thoroughbred, then pause as Annette unties my reins from the hitching post. It could be the drug coursing through my veins, making me bold—foolish—but why shouldn’t I try to make a break for it? She’d follow me, of course. But I’d only need to make it to Tristan. Tristan would get Enola help faster than any of these women will.

One look, and he’ll know everything. He’ll defend me.

Annette stills, her eyes hard with suspicion. But then she hurries to knot my reins around her saddle horn. “I promise you, if you don’t do this, I will go back and kill Enola myself.”

“The town’s treasured founding member? You wouldn’t.”

Her eyes turn wild. “I would. For Kingsland and the people I love that you’re brainwashing, I would do far worse.”

I study the proud tilt of her jaw, the anger burning in her eyes. No. I don’t believe her. If she’s willing to kill someone, then why hasn’t she killed me?

Because murder is the line she won’t cross.

She takes off at a trot on the black pavement, forcing my horse to follow. The movement makes my head feel like it could roll off my shoulders onto a pillow of clouds. We reach the end of the street and pass the last house. I’m running out of time to find a way to get to Tristan.

“Tristan will never believe I did this to Enola,” I say.

“I’m willing to take that chance.”

I force a smile and hold it until she sees. “And if he comes after me?”

Her breathing hiccups. “He won’t.”

She wasn’t so confident the other night. “Why? Because you’re going to lock him in a room?”

“I think you overestimate your power over him. And you’re high; you sound like an idiot. You might want to shut up.”

I snort and lean forward in my saddle. “Your plan won’t work, you know. Tristan and I connected after you told him I was trying to leave. He will come after me.”

Her head snaps in my direction.

“In fact, you talking to Tristan was the very thing that pushed us together. Why do you think I’m still here? We’re connected. And once he sees what you’ve done . . . which he will . . . then . . .”

Annette goes silent, her body stiff. I’ve hit her where she’s most vulnerable—hope. Hope that she and Tristan still have a chance. This was never about Kingsland and what’s best for her people. For Annette, this is all about her.

With a yank, I wrench on my reins tied to her saddle. They slip a little but not enough to come free. I go to pull again, but instead of making sure the knot holds, she draws a knife. I’m defenseless as her arm whips back and launches the blade at my face.

I flinch. We’re too close for any other response, but she makes a shockingly terrible throw. The blade lands with a thud, sticking into the thick leather of the saddle, inches from my leg.

Annette plunges her hand into the deep pocket of her work shirt and grabs another knife. I go for the one stuck in my saddle. Her arm pulls back to throw, but I’m faster. With a flick of my wrist, the knife lands true, impaling in her sternum, right between her breasts. She releases a cry of rage.

Distress douses me at the violent turn we’ve taken. The healer in me can’t help but assess her wound—I’ve likely only struck bone. Inconvenient. Painful. But not fatal.

It doesn’t slow Annette down. Winding back again, she throws her second knife.

There’s only time to duck and dig my heels into my horse’s side. It propels him forward, and Annette’s linked horse is forced to follow. Annette is jerked from the saddle and falls to the ground with another cry.

“What’s going on here?”

shouts a deep voice, as a horse gallops toward me. It’s Samuel. Ryland follows, corralling me to the side, forcing me to a stop.

“She stabbed me,”

Annette cries, pushing to her feet with a wobble. The knife is missing, but blood spots her shirt. “Look at what she did! Expel her from Kingsland. Now. Do it before she kills someone.”

Samuel whirls on me.

“Sh-she,”

I sputter. “She attacked me first. Enola! Check Enola. They hurt her.”

“Don’t listen. It was her who tried to kill Enola,”

Annette screams.

Samuel’s gaze on me turns lethal. “I saw what you did with that knife.”

Blood drains from my face. “It’s n—”

“Take her to Tristan,”

Ryland says calmly. “Get the truth from him. The connection won’t let her lie. I’ll stay with Annette.”

“No,”

Annette screams. People have exited their homes to see what the commotion is all about, and Annette makes her plea to them. “We don’t need Tristan when there were four witnesses to her attack. Four nurses saw her try to kill Enola.”

The people gasp, and Annette grips her chest. “Look, I’m bleeding. What more evidence do you need that she tried to kill me?”

Samuel takes the reins of my horse and leads me away from the growing crowd.

“Samuel,”

I beg. “You need to go to the hos—”

“Enough,”

he snarls with such force my mouth snaps closed. “You think I’d believe you over her? I only want to hear from Tristan, and if even a fraction of what she just said is true, you’ve got another arrow coming your way.”

We travel the remaining distance in silence as I try to calm myself with deep breaths. This all will be over soon.

When we arrive, Samuel ties the horses, and then I lead the way through the front door. “Tristan,”

I call, with Samuel following on my heels.

There’s a gust of wind, then a crash of a chair. Samuel hits the floor.

I spin around, confused.

“Isadora?”

I lift my gaze toward the voice—a voice I wasn’t sure I’d ever hear again. My world stops turning. Am I hallucinating?

“Liam?”

I whisper.