Chapter 23
Igive up tossing and turning in my bed and get up early.
Blood-transfusing spells, complex-medius—
Blood is extracted from the healthy, filtered through chamomile compatibility adaption, and delivered into the patient . . .
Quin’s Go! punches through me again, and I slam the book shut. He’s not what I care about most. He’s not why I’m here.
But even after an hour of trying to suppress it, his voice lingers.
Thankfully, Florentius knocks on my door.
It’s our final day of health checks on King’s Island until next month, and the last thing I want is to arrive as the king is roaming his gardens.
Better to get there early and hide myself behind footsore aklas.
Florentius leads the way down the corridor, pristine in his white robes. “Chiron wants to see us.”
I stall and my stomach curdles. Each step forward feels heavier than the last.
At the second staircase, Florentius glances over his shoulder. “You’re unusually quiet.”
This is not the normal bounce I storm up here with, either. “I . . . met the king yesterday.”
“You acted as you should, I hope,” Florentius says. “No looking, no speaking, no touching.”
I recall every past interaction with Quin.
Yanking him away from Frederica. Fondling him for his gold-threaded underwear.
Telling him he’s a useless king. Pretending to be a travelling scholar and drunkenly crashing in his bed.
Calling him too unlikeable to inspire loyalty in his aklos.
Giving him amorous perfume, spilling it, landing in his lap.
Covering his mouth several times to stop him speaking.
Declaring him ignorable. Flicking his head!
Clutching his naked leg while he took a bath!
Slapping him.
Florentius has stopped at the newel post, watching me claw my way to the top of the stairs.
“Um,” I say, hoarsely, “pretty much. No looking, no speaking, no touching.”
I give him a wan smile and follow him into the richly scented apothecary.
Chiron is already there, pacing between shelves of dried herbs, cloak flicking at every turn. He stops sharply when he sees us and jerks a finger at the tables we use for lessons. “Finally. Sit.”
I slink onto a seat and stare at the desk.
Chiron clears his throat. “Why has the king requested you be transferred?”
Transferred.
My stomach feels heavy and I cradle it.
He doesn’t want to see me again.
Florentius says, confused and indignant, “To where?” Then, hopeful, “To the other—”
“You’re deluded if you think you can . . . This is not the time for that discussion.”
Florentius’s posture deflates beside mine.
Chiron stands in front of me, expectant. “What happened?”
My cheeks burn. The king could have me beheaded for that uncontrolled outburst. He’s only sending me away to another part of the royal city. He’s had enough of me.
My throat aches as I swallow. “It’s my fault. Nothing to do with Florentius.”
“You’re supposed to report directly if one of your spells fails.”
I open my mouth to tell him it wasn’t a spell that went wrong, but the truth will have more serious consequences. “A . . . hair growth spell went awry. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too. Your chances of becoming a medius-complex vitalian have decreased dramatically. I’ll have to take this into consideration at your examination. You are already struggling.” He sighs. “Have you given thought to dropping out?”
Florentius’s head swings my way; I can’t tell if he’s hopeful I will, or surprised his father suggested it.
“I say this,” Chiron says, “to protect you. Another mistake might have more serious consequences. Might cost you your medius vitalian status.” I squeeze my soldad, heart pounding. “Might cost you everything.”
Tight silence follows until Chiron breaks it with a pat on my shoulder. “Give me an answer by six tomorrow morning.
“For today,” he continues, “you’re both free unless the others need support. Use your time wisely. Florentius, I suggest you read up on transplantation theory. Get a head start.”
Chiron swishes from the room.
Florentius plucks a spellbook and returns to his desk. I laugh hollowly and drag my chair beside him. “No.”
He stiffens but doesn’t look up.
“You want friends, Florentius. I saw you during the last exam, staring wistfully at everyone. Ask me how I’m doing.”
He brushes my hand off his book. “I know better than to make friends here.”
“And yet,” I press, leaning in, “you’re still here, listening.”
He stiffens. Through his sleeve against mine, I feel the uptick of his pulse.
I say more softly, “I just want us to help one another out when we’re down.”
He turns his head slowly and tired eyes hit mine. “The friendliest thing I can tell you is to take the opportunity: give up and run.”
“If I don’t?”
“People don’t like different, and you’re different.” His voice thickens. He looks away. “It’s dangerous.”
“See, right there. Behind your hard, prettily polished shield, you’re concerned about me. You’ve got feelings.”
“And you have no shield. You let everyone know your thoughts at any moment.”
I haul a deep breath into my achy chest and let it wheeze out again. I force myself to smile. “You’re right. Your shield is quite large though; what about sharing it with me? I can be . . . your sword in return. If you ever need to provoke someone.”
He huffs a small laugh and smothers it hurriedly.
“Florentius?” I say, and his eyes stop tracking the lines of his book. “We’re going to become friends.”
I pluck a transfusion book from his pile and crack it open. He stares.
Not more than half an hour later, a harried-looking aklo stumbles into the apothecary alongside a redcloak, and Makarios and Mikros glide out of the adjacent room to greet them. “How may we be of help?”
“One of the royal guests has the headache.”
Makarios and Mikros incline their heads. “We can be of service.”
“He insists on a green sash attending him.”
“A green sash?”
“He’s a teacher. He wishes to provide opportunity for the less experienced.”
Mikros hesitates, his gaze shifting between Florentius and me. “Florentius, Caelus, you’ll go together.”
We follow—out of the apothecary, to a garden amphitheatre alive with activity.
Semi-circular tiers frame the stage, and aklas are bustling about setting exquisite dishes on neatly arranged tables.
The scent of roasted spices drifts on the breeze, mingling with the hum of conversation.
The redcloak and aklo lead us to the middle section, where a private booth awaits behind a silk curtain.
My breath catches as I spot a familiar figure—white hair gleaming under sunlight, and beside him, a whiter cat nestled in a basket.
My stomach hops. I almost trip as I scurry over.
Skriniaris Evander rises, his warm smile a longed-for comfort as he beckons me to join him. With a whisper, he sends his aklo and the redcloak away.
I sling myself onto a cushioned bench while Florentius stands beside the table. It takes three tugs at his sleeve to get him folding beside me. He bows his head at Skriniaris Evander. “We are here to dispel your headache.”
Evander waves a dismissive hand. “I needed some excuse to get my friend here, that’s all.”
Florentius tries to stand again. “I should—”
I yank him back down, grab a small cake from the platters before us and stuff it into his mouth. Skriniaris Evander strokes his cat, smiling.
“Fancy table,” I say appreciatively, stroking the fine linen tablecloth. “Might be the best here.”
“It is. It’s the royal booth.”
Florentius chokes on his cake.
I also find it difficult to swallow.
I say, tentatively, “You mean Prince Nicostratus invited you?”
“Also a good boy, that one. No, I’m closer with his majesty.” His gaze slides outside the booth and he smiles widely. “Here comes my surprise for you, Cael. Make some space.”
I lurch to my feet as a set of pretty pastel skirts peeks from behind Skriniaris Evander’s aklo, and a young woman launches herself into my arms. She looks pretty, despite the wisps of hair that have fallen out of place, the smudged eye makeup over her cheekbone, the crinkled hem of her dress.
Typically Akilah. Her hug is fierce. I look at Skriniaris Evander over her shoulder and he gestures us to sit down. “Eat. The play is about to begin.”
Akilah pulls a small box from her sleeve. “Teas from home. Have you seen Veronica?”
“It’s harder to move about the royal city than you think.”
“What about you-know-who?” she giggles.
“Not nearly enough,” I say with a sigh.
Florentius shifts next to me, looking like he’s about to leap out of his seat and elegantly scamper off. I fuse a hand to his forearm; Akilah glances at him, blinks, and laughs. “If it isn’t you.”
He lifts his chin and looks away. “You don’t need me here.”
I clamp tighter. “Stay.”
Akilah squeezes between us, skirts billowing as she plunks down with a happy sigh. Florentius flinches as her skirts spill over his lap, brushing at the fabric like it might stain his robes.
“Like a cat avoiding water, aren’t you?” Akilah says, laughing.
He huffs and then quiets as the play unfolds below.
It’s about a young woman who keeps falling for and losing the same man, only she doesn’t know he’s the same man, for each time they meet, he wears a different mask.
It feels familiar—too familiar—and a quiet unease builds in my lower stomach.
No matter how many others come into her life, she always finds herself entwined with him.
Masked figures swirl across the stage, silk and feathers catching the light. The woman hesitates, her gaze darting between them. A villain’s whisper hangs in the air, and she trembles before taking a tentative step forward.
Akilah whispers in my ear, “Who do you think it is?”
I stop swallowing and squint. “The one in the feathered mask?”
“Which feathered mask?”
Florentius scoffs but then mutters, “Under the arch. Definitely. Or . . . maybe by the trellis.”