Chapter 18 #3
“I thought you’d be able to help me find it,” Amaris interjected, “being the mystique’s replacement for a while.” She wanted her help, not to get her in trouble, but Theodoric didn’t pay Amaris a second glance as he eyed Pricilla.
“If I recall, Cornelius was certain a few of his anatomy tomes had gone missing over the years,” Theodoric said.
“All right,” Pricilla said, her voice airy.
“I may have found it.” She skipped to an empty part of the floor and pressed on a wooden plank, gripping it as it came flying up to meet her.
She withdrew a leather-bound journal and tossed it to Theodoric.
“I was going to return it after I finished recording everything. Cornelius always kept all his books to himself.”
“As we have a new mystique, I think she might allow you access to her collection,” he said, licking his thumb and shuffling through the pages. “Here it is.”
“What does it say?” Amaris asked.
“He lists the ingredients for his scrying fever tonic.”
Pricilla’s eyes turned wild. She brushed her shoulders and turned in a circle. “Why are you looking that up?” she asked in alarm. Maybe it was a way of warding off bad energy.
“Esaias has contracted it. It’s likely he brought it back from Duncaster,” he answered.
“I’m so sorry,” she began. “If I’d known—”
“You couldn’t have,” Theodoric said, grasping her shoulder.
A single tear rolled down her cheek. Amaris imagined he’d pull back or shy away, but he wiped it, giving her a wry smile. He threw the book to Amaris.
She shuffled through the pages until she found scrying fever written across the top of one.
She skimmed through the chicken scratch.
Had he ever heard of good penmanship? She fanned a few pages, reviewing the contents.
It was her own set of protocols, like the ones at work.
It listed everything from tonic recipes to descriptions of his patients’ injuries and illnesses.
“Let’s get what we need.” Amaris continued reading.
The old mystique’s descriptions weren’t encouraging that the cure worked, but there was one account of a patient who survived the disease.
She forced a swallow. What if the tonic was useless and that one patient was just a lucky break?
What would happen if she couldn’t cure Esaias?
Theodoric gave Pricilla a reassuring nod, and Amaris offered what smile she could before they were off and headed toward the tower.
“Have you ever heard of bufomom?” Amaris’s eyes were glued to the journal. She giggled to herself thinking of how, back home, someone at the station would’ve tried to crack a mom joke, but she refrained from letting Theodoric hear her. The disease was scarier than she initially thought.
“I’m not familiar,” he answered flatly.
“It says it’s the main ingredient in the tonic.”
“What does it look like?”
Amaris shoved the journal in his face, pointing to the small yellow flowers sketched on the page.
She flipped through the book, perusing the various pictures and recipes.
Her eyes stopped on a description of the best method to suture a cut to the abdomen.
A knot twisted in her gut. A mystique wasn’t some ordinary medical professional or even the level of a paramedic. They were physicians.
She stepped into the nearly pristine tower, ignoring the stacks of crates to her right. The wall of shelves looked perfectly symmetrical after her constant organizing. She set about pulling them down, reading the labels, and comparing the flowers to the picture in the journal.
“Can you grab those for me?” she asked Theodoric. He reached up and pulled down several jars with specks of yellow on the leaves. He set them beside her, then leaned against the counter and waited for his next order in silence.
“You said you lost the mystique in the war. You were there?” she pried.
His thumb brushed what appeared to be a drawing etched into his knife’s hilt, circling the worn carving.
So that little habit has to do with the war.
“Yes,” he finally answered. He slid up his sleeve and scratched his arm, but the faintest glimpse of a jagged scar began on his upper forearm and disappeared under his shirt.
Amaris averted her gaze. “Where were you stationed?”
“Fort Berland in Lungvik,” he answered sharply. “Have you found it yet?”
Startled at his tone, she dropped the flowers, and they scattered across the wooden counter. “I believe these are it,” she said, swallowing her breath.
“You believe?”
“Okay, yes.” She dragged her finger across the label. “But we’ll need more ingredients. It says we need pygmy peppermint and thorn marjoram. I don’t remember seeing those when I organized everything.”
“They’re common kitchen herbs. Ms. Borstad will have them in the garden.”
He pulled from the counter, his belt jingling and his steps heavy as he started toward the stairs.
Amaris paused before following him, pinching a bufomom flower between her fingers.
Its petals were like velvet, its color a vibrant yellow.
She dropped the flower back into the jar and caressed the shiny, white scars scattering her knuckles, Theodoric’s thick scar still prevalent in her mind.
§
Amaris kneeled before the planter and dug her fingers into the dirt.
The fresh breeze ruffled through her hair, and her fingers embraced the cool soil.
Theodoric was perched on a short stone wall on the edge of the garden.
His complexity was an understatement. She’d spent the entire trek examining how he walked, the way his hands clenched, and how his eyes cleared each door he passed.
The paramedic within her couldn’t help analyzing him. He rubbed his shoulders, attempting to massage the strained muscles. It was hard to believe he was so young and had been to an actual war.
“Good, he’s letting you out for some fresh air.” Adelaide grinned, plopping beside Theodoric.
He gave her a gentle smile, breaking the crust he held firm in his jaw. She kicked her legs against the gray stones, knocking the sand from her boots.
“We’re creating a tonic,” Amaris announced, still digging up the thorn marjoram.
It was a tricky root, burrowed in the ground.
She planned to gather as much as she could, especially since the disease seemed to be highly contagious.
She needed her strength to be alert. If eyes were watching her every moment, she wanted to be prepared.
“What for?”
“Scrying fever,” Amaris said, ripping up one of the roots. Dirt flew everywhere as she collapsed back. She cringed as the back of her head smacked the ground.
“Good one.” Adelaide laughed. “Next you’re going to tell me nether madness is running rampant.” She folded over in laughter, only ceasing when she saw Amaris’s muscles stiffen as she laid still in the grass. “You’re serious?”
“What’s nether madness?” Amaris hoped it wasn’t something else she had to deal with.
“Nothing we’ll ever have to worry about here,” Theodoric cut in.
“It’s a disease that makes you go crazy till you…” Adelaide slid her hand across her throat, crossing her eyes and sticking out her tongue.
“You die from delirium?”
“Or you kill yourself, whichever comes first.” Adelaide smirked and smacked Theodoric on the back. “Like he said, not around here. But please indulge me. Who in the realm has scrying fever?”
“Esaias,” Theodoric said gruffly.
Adelaide lost all matter of her joking demeanor. “Has anyone else come down with it?”
“Thankfully no,” he answered.
The whinny of a horse grabbed Amaris’s attention. Neither of them seemed to notice, but her eyes darted over her shoulder and scanned the grounds. The wall engulfed the manor, only slowly receding until it stopped at the beach.
She squinted, and along the edge of the wall she could make out what looked to be a barn or some stables. Her heart lifted, a plan forming. She’d only pondered how to slip away from her guards, not what she would do once she did. Would Theodoric help her now?
“Amaris?” Adelaide’s voice beckoned her back to the conversation. “I said, tell me about Derek. I find it hard to believe that a woman as fierce as you would settle for any ordinary man.”
Amaris raised her brows and passed a glance to Theodoric, who had previously been busy nudging the toe of his boot at a rock. Now his awareness was keenly set on her. She wished she hadn’t heard Adelaide and Theodoric hadn’t either. Adelaide was either baiting her or wasn’t one to keep secrets.
Amaris sat up, brushing the dirt wedged between the lines of her palms. “We’ve been friends for so long it’s hard to pick a few things to describe him.”
“What’s the worst part of relationships?”
“Adelaide,” Theodoric snipped.
She waved him off, furrowing her brow as she implored for Amaris to go on.
What was the worst part? For Amaris and Derek, it was the fighting, and for what?
Most of their fights were stupid bickering matches.
A few weeks ago, they’d fought over who’d left the toaster unplugged.
She hated it—the person she’d become and what his job had turned him into.
Before his promotion, he’d never raised his voice at her.
Amaris found her hand trailing across her cheek, her nails caressing where the bruise once sat, but she instantly dropped her hand, hoping neither of them noticed. She’d studied it every morning during her bath to assess the discoloration.
“Sharing food.” She nibbled at the corner of her lip, and a subtle shift of her gaze caught Theodoric’s eyes trained on her. “Derek loves to swipe food off my plate.”
“How rude.” Adelaide gawked. “If a man ever tries to grab from my plate, I’ll pin his hand to the table.”
“With what daggers?” Theodoric asked, his eyes growing wide.
Adelaide sent him a narrowed gaze. It was probably a sibling thing. “With a fork. It’ll hurt more.”
Amaris went back to the pesky roots within the garden box, but Theodoric’s eyes were like magnets. She refused to meet his eye contact but knew it was there, burning through her skin. He couldn’t have pieced it together. She could’ve been scratching an itch for all he knew.