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T he outpost is perched on a rocky hill that stands between the city of Hinsard and any threat coming from the open plains and canals to the south. I pay the driver who carted me to the base of the hill and climb the last stretch, passing the odd clump of hardy shrubbery as I head towards sturdy stone walls, an impressive watchtower, and hopefully, Constable Quin.

I glimpse him leaning on his cane at a gate, stoic-faced redcloaks lining either side, and hurry my step. If I don’t catch him before he goes in, I’ll be stuck out here until he’s done. My stomach can’t handle the unease.

“Constable!” I yell, once, twice, three times before Quin turns his head.

The last dozen yards, I’m hyper aware of the soldiers and their hands at the ready. I slow my step, eyes darting between them and dark-eyed Quin, who is turning towards an approaching decorated redcloak.

“You’ve permission to enter,” the redcloak says to him, flicking a frown my way.

“Ah,” Quin says, not missing a beat, “this is my assistant.” He glances at me. “Took your time getting here.”

I bow my head. “Forgive me.”

“Come on then, before these clouds open and we lose any missed evidence.”

I remain at Quin’s heels as he snaps his way inside.

We pass simple barracks and a mess hall that swells with the rowdy laughter of off-duty comrades. In a small picket-fenced herb garden beside the hall, my gaze hitches on a patch of recently upturned soil...

“Keep up,” Quin says, and I hurry after him.

A commanding figure emerges from the largest hut; the redcloak leading us stops with a bow and addresses him. Commander Thalassios.

My head whips to Quin, eyes widening. This is the man he came south to find.

Quin keeps his gaze ahead, his face impassive.

“Your superior was here this morning,” the commander says, eyeing Quin shrewdly.

Quin inclines his head respectfully, playing up his comparatively insignificant status. “We want to be sure we haven’t overlooked anything.”

Over the commander’s shoulder, in the gap of his open door, I glimpse a swish of white lace and blink. The gap is dark once more.

Commander Thalassios’s fist curls. “Be thorough this time.”

He waves us off, grim faced.

To me, Quin murmurs, “He wants control over this, but his unit moved here less than a month ago. By law that gives the city jurisdiction.”

A redcloak conducts us to the place where the bodies were found, and keeps watch as we look around.

Quin’s eyes are observant, keen beneath his constable hat. He wades through the grass and stops where it’s flattened. His hand runs through the blades, jaw flexing with determination to bring his brother justice. I pull my gaze off him to study the area too. A subtle, out-of-place scent catches my attention; I pluck some of the disturbed grass and sniff.

“They said echowisp . . .”

“What do you think?”

“There’s another scent that doesn’t belong here. I can’t quite make it out.”

Quin passes me paper, and I fold the grass into it.

I pause as we pass the herb garden. I don’t believe I’ll find anything with the same scent—in fact, I’m sure it’s a concoction of some sort—but I want to double check... It’d leave a bluish trace to the soil...

“What are you up to?” booms a stout man who’s barging into the garden, wiping his hands on his cook’s apron and responding to the redcloak’s efforts to calm him with a disgruntled hmpf . If anyone was to know if echowisp’s grown here, it would be the cook.

“Not worth the risk, even if the seeds increase strength and stamina. Some of these ‘cloaks haven’t a clue about plants, what parts are edible and what not. Anything like that in the garden and the helpers could poison the entire unit.”

Risky, indeed. “What was here?” I gesture at the upturned dirt.

“False buttonweed. The stuff’s obnoxious, keeps growing back no matter how many times I pull it up.” He finds another clump of it and rips it out. He shakes the nest of intricate, shallow roots at me. “If you’re after echowisp, try the gardens outside the city.”

Not what I want to hear. “It’s not found anywhere in town?”

He shrugs. “Go check any other garden so long’s you scram outta mine.”

There’s something about the snap of the outpost gates closing behind us that jerks awareness into me as we walk down the hill. Quin and I are alone, no redcloak watching over us, no cook to buffer us from other thoughts.

I swallow as I recall the last time we were alone. Quin’s firm stare, that shattering truth, the swell of hurt, anger.

My step hitches.

He notices, and looks over at me with narrowed eyes. “Afraid?”

I glower.

“I see.”

What does he see? I don’t like the way he thinks he can read right through me. In three steps the distance between us disappears. I lift my chin and meet his eye. His cane is so close, I feel the ghost of its length down my hip, my leg. Something inside me is yelling at me to retreat, but I steel myself. Grit my teeth.

He sizes me up. “Still angry. Thought you’d be bargaining with the heavens.”

If this healer can fix me, I’ll give up five years of my life. Ten.

Blood drains from my face. “Nothing is impossible.”

Quin’s cane shifts, a brief stamp against my outer thigh. “False!”

Sickening fear lances up my throat. I shake my head. “Why are you so harsh? Why can’t you believe I’ll recover?”

He crouches, picks up a rock and smashes it. He lifts the pieces and throws some away. “It’s broken. Can’t be put back together.” He twists a remaining shard in his hand and scratches a petal reminiscent of my clasp into his wooden cane. “Doesn’t mean it can’t have a purpose.”

He leans in. “Do you understand?”

He’s breathing hard. So am I. I rip myself away, shaking my head. “There’s still one healer I haven’t seen.”

My nape prickles as he watches me race off down the hill. When I round out of sight, I sag and choke on a hiccuppy feeling rising from my belly.

Somehow, I force my feet forward and claw my way to the last apothecary on my list.

Maybe, just maybe . . .

The visit is short.

The snick of the door closing behind me is deafening.

I throw up in nearby shrubbery, roll onto the grass and stare vacantly at the greying skies. Rain splashes on my face, then the sky opens and it pours. I feel like I’m sinking into the soggy ground, fists at my sides, chest hollow. I close my eyes. I want to stay here, let rain wear me away...

I roll onto my side, splay my fingers in the mud and struggle to push myself up. I stumble back to Nicostratus’s, drenched and dirty. I ask an aklo to take me to my rooms by a route where I won’t be seen, and two aklas help prepare me a bath. When I undress, I hesitate at the clasp of my cloak. I rip it off and stuff it in with my gloves and Grandfather’s books.

Later, I drag myself to dinner; manage to keep my voice even. “Your brother will ensure your innocence is proven.”

A gentle hand lands on my shoulder; I drag my eyes off my plate and scrimmage up a smile. “I’m just tired.”

He smiles. “Go. Get some rest.”

I sleep early, wake late, try sleeping again. I dream of Nicostratus’s attack by the canal, my useless hands that could only hit acupoints... Those attackers had wanted to kill the prince, they’d—

I snap upright and throw my heavy legs out of bed. I skip breakfast, knot my cloak at my shoulder, and force myself to the constabulary.

I try to approach Constable Michealios, but he’s busy and orders me away.

Someone grabs my wrist and I’m whirled around to Quin in his well-fitted uniform, eyes piercingly observant under his hat. His jaw twitches and he tows me to where, yesterday, the bodies had rested. He faces me, gaze dropping to my naked hand before rising to the knot at my throat. His expression pinches. “Be as angry with me as you like, but in regards to this case, talk to me first.”

It’s true—seeing him has me feeling a sharp strike of gravity. Part of me wants to scream and lash out. Another part wishes I’d worn the gloves and the clasp, because the touch of his disappointed gaze at those points somehow lingers on my skin.

I swallow with a tight nod. He’s right. My personal feelings shouldn’t interfere with this. “I don’t know how relevant it is, but something feels off.”

“Explain.”

“When your brother was attacked at the canal, there were four assailants. Yet there were only three bodies... if we could find the fourth...”

We head to the outpost again. The commander is too busy to see us; there was an outbreak of food poisoning amongst the redcloaks last night. A deputy listens to our request. “Can you perhaps lead us to the friends of the deceased for questioning?”

“They didn’t have so many friends, those four. They transferred only a few months ago. Kept to themselves. Never got the best feeling about them.”

“Four?” I ask. “Only three died.”

The deputy grimaces. “The other one... Paxos, I think his name is, he abandoned his post.”

“When?”

“Don’t know. Only that he wasn’t there when we discovered his friends’ bodies.”

Vital information. Why was it not passed on? “Are your men looking for him?”

“Commander doesn’t want anyone taken from their duties.”

Quin and I spare a look at one another.

“Did this Paxos leave anything behind?” I ask.

“Everything. I guess that’s how he thought he could get away without it being noticed.”

He leads us to the barracks the four slept in, and Quin and I gather all their belongings to take back to the constabulary. We thank the deputy for his help and he sends us off through the gate, but before it shuts, a redcloak slips out and chases us a few steps.

He’s flushed, and he’s keeping his voice low. “I was in the watchtower when those soldiers died.”

“You saw what happened?”

He shakes his head. “But there was someone in the shadows outside.”

“Why didn’t you tell this to the constable yesterday?”

He reddens. “I was on watch. It’s my job to apprehend anyone who’s not meant to be here but I... fell in the chase. I... Um, could you not... tell my superiors?”

“Can you give us a description of this man?”

“I can do better.” He pulls folded paper from inside his uniform and hands it to us. “I hoped one of you might come again. I drew his face best I could remember it.”

A short distance from the constabulary, Quin tells our driver to halt. I blink and lift my head from its resting place against the window. Quin orders me out, and when I’m too slow, helps me with an arm around mine. With me in tow, he snaps his way to the nearest stall and orders lunch.

“The moment we left the outpost, you lost all energy,” he says. “Eat.”

I pick at the plate. “I’m not hungry.”

My belly rumbles.

He watches me closely for a moment, and then asks me to pull out the soldier’s drawing.

I unfold the sketch and we study it. There’s something vaguely familiar about the small eyes and large forehead... “Wait. I’ve seen this man.”

I tuck the picture away for safekeeping and lead Quin through the streets towards the apothecary where I’d met Vitalian Dimos. I explain all I know—that he’d recently had his soldad revoked and had been packing up his shop. That it had sounded like he held a grudge.

Inside, the air is thick with the residual perfume of potent herbs and dried flowers, but the vials, jars, and boxes have all gone. All that’s left is a bench, pushed up against the back wall, and a counter littered with stray papers. Quin takes the chance to ease his pain and sits while I leaf through the papers. Maybe I’ll find another address, or names of people Dimos worked with. Maybe they’ll know where to find him.

Quin murmurs, “You came here hoping for a cure.”

I pause my fingers on a page and stare unseeingly at the words scrawled over it.

“How many vitalians have told you the same thing?”

The page blurs. You cannot be cured. I hurriedly scoop the pages up. “Let’s take these for closer inspection.”

“Cael . . .”

“We’re here for Nicostratus.” I lift my head to meet his eye firmly, but my gaze shoots to a green-striped snake slinking down a corner of the wall, frighteningly close to Quin.

I yelp and throw my hands to cast a shield between its venomous fangs and Quin’s exposed skin, but nothing comes out of me . My knee-jerk reaction has Quin jumping, and at his sudden movement the snake strikes.

Quin hisses, blasts the snake away across the room, and slaps his wounded neck.

I’m frozen only for a second before I’m bounding across the room, dropping to my knees before him. My fingers shake as I lift them to Quin’s neck, pulling his away. The puncture marks are clean but deep. I trail my fingertips over the wound, but... no magic. There’ll never be magic again.

I stiffen. Quin touches my arm. My breath becomes rapid, panicked. “I can’t extract the poison! The venom is quick working, when it reaches your organs, it’ll paralyse you and then...” I grit my teeth. If there’s never magic again, how can I protect you!

Quin cups my cheek, voice weakening. “Southern kingdom healing.”

Southern . . . Rural farmers must survive bites while working the fields. They would . . . I swallow.

Quin’s head drops back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut. A surge of fear washes through me and I scramble off my knees to straddle his lap, knees digging into the bench either side. One hand cradles his head, the other cups his shoulder; his wounded neck is exposed to me, a reddish two-pronged puncture marks the flawless, sensitive skin.

I glance at his slackened face and hurriedly drop my trembling lips to his neck. I suck deeply. Poisoned blood rushes into my mouth, and I spit out the bitter taste; lower my head to his neck again.

Sweat pearls at my temples, and my hands are clammy where they’re supporting him. My thumb moves under his jaw, a calming stroke for both of us. He stirs, and I spit and check his face for any sign of improvement. His eyelids are opening. His lips are parting.

I dip my head, clasp my lips to his neck, and take one last pull to be sure. He twitches under my mouth, and my hands lock against him. He’s conscious. He’ll be safe.

My breath shudders and my nose taps the skin under his ear. I rip myself away from his neck and off his lap.

“You can save without magic.”

I spit out the last of the venom and determinedly don’t look back. I hastily find a sack and capture the snake inside.

But his words echo in my mind as I carry the snake to the woods on trembling legs.

You can save without magic.