4. Chapter 4
Chapter 4
C emre dressed herself slowly that morning, filled with apprehension about . . . well, everything. The doctor, the costume, the audition . . .
“I’m doing this for them,” she said out loud to herself. “They need me to do this.”
She hadn’t heard them come in the previous night. After putting Thumper to bed, she had managed to drop off to sleep herself, despite all the thoughts running through her head. It had been a long week.
She tiptoed down the hall toward the stairs, not wanting to wake the slumbering revellers, but just as she passed Taurine’s room, she heard the unmistakable sound of a sob. She halted and listened. After a moment, there was a sniffle, and then another miserable combination of sob and hiccup.
Cemre tapped on the door. “Taurine? Are you all right?”
There was a sniff, and then the blocked-trumpet-blast of a nose being blown, and then a watery, “I’m fine.”
Cemre’s forehead creased. “Can I come in?”
Silence.
Then a barely audible, “All right.”
Cemre turned the tarnished doorknob and slowly pushed the door open, as if any sudden moves might startle the distraught occupant.
Taurine sat up against the pillows in her four-poster bed. She’d offered to sell it and sleep on the mattress on the floor, but Cemre had fudged her way around it by claiming that she couldn’t find anyone who wanted to buy it. This was, of course, because she had not told anyone it was for sale. But she couldn’t bear for Taurine to live in even more misery than her loss of smell and taste had caused. It wasn’t just that she couldn’t find as much enjoyment in food as before; the poor girl was in a constant state of worry that she stank because she couldn’t smell her own body odour. She checked under the bed regularly in case a rodent had crept under there and expired and she couldn’t scent the rotting corpse.
Cemre sat down on the side of the bed and put out her hand. Taurine took it with her own slightly clammy one. Her eyes were red and swollen. She must have wiped her cheeks with her handkerchief, but Cemre noticed the damp patch on the corner of her pillow that peeped out from behind her.
“Did you have a bad night? Nightmares?” Since her illness, Taurine had started having very vivid dreams, usually not pleasant ones.
She shook her head, though.
“What time did you get back last night?”
“This morning, actually.” Taurine’s voice was croaky and strained. “Around three, I think. I fell right to sleep.” She squeezed the handkerchief in her free hand. “It’s not that.”
Cemre waited a moment, but Taurine seemed to have gotten stuck somewhere inside herself, staring blindly at the bedsheet over her lap. Cemre squeezed her sister’s hand. “Did you enjoy yourself at the ball?”
Taurine looked up, and a faint smile curled her lips. “Oh yes! That dress! I felt beautiful. And then the dancing . . .” Her eyes darted downwards, and her already pink cheeks darkened to a deep fuchsia.
A blush? Who had Taurine danced with to cause such a reaction? Cemre leaned forward. “Ye-e-es?”
Taurine’s chin squished into her neck as she tried to avoid Cemre’s eyes. “It was just . . . nice, that’s all.”
“If Rubella talking about what she thinks happens in a brothel doesn’t make you blush, ‘nice’ certainly won’t do it.” Cemre bounced Taurine’s hand on the bed. “Tell me! Who did you dance with?”
Taurine’s shoulder bobbed up and down once. “A few different people.”
Cemre groaned and stood up. “I’m going to wake Rubella and ask her.”
“No!” Taurine pulled her back to the bed by their still-clasped hands. “All right. I danced with . . . Prince Umberto.” She squeezed her eyes shut.
Cemre remembered shoving her sister into the prince’s arms in her desperation to flee. And clearly Taurine had enjoyed it! A tiny font of joy bubbled up from her stomach. “And he was . . . nice?”
Taurine nodded, cheeks still dark pink. “More than nice.” Her shoulders trembled as though her wings were trying to flutter, and Cemre’s heart leapt.
“Well?” When there was no response, Cemre moved to stand up again.
“No!” A tiny giggle escaped. “He was . . . wonderful.” Taurine dipped her head again, hiding her secret smile. “He has the sweetest accent, and he asked me all about myself, what I like to do, where my favourite places to go are. I didn’t know what to say at first; it’s been so long since I . . .” She frowned, but then it was swept away by a new, sparkly smile. “But then he started to guess the most ridiculous things – that I raise hippogriffs for track-racing, that I train parrots to swear and sell them to pirates, that I visit lagoons to hunt bunyips.” She giggled. “And the words just” – she shook her head – “I don’t know, tumbled out of me. And we talked and talked and then the dance was over, but he said he’d dance with me again when it was my official turn, because the one that was supposed to be with you didn’t count. So we danced again, and then he told me he’d meet me on the balcony when he’d danced with everyone on the list.”
She sighed and her gunmetal grey eyes flicked up to the ceiling, the canopy of the bed long since removed to make clothes for the ever-growing Rubella. “It was hours, of course, but as soon as the last name was called, I went out there, and . . . he came. And we talked some more. I don’t even know what we talked about. He told me he likes horse-riding, and I said I’d used to like that too, and he said perhaps, if his duties didn’t keep him the whole time he’s here, he could call on me and we could go riding together.” She gulped. “And then Mother came to say it was time to leave, and he kissed my hand, and all I could think was . . . was . . .” She hiccupped and, though Cemre had thought she couldn’t possibly blush any deeper, turned flaming red.
“What?”
“I thought . . . I just wanted to know how he smelled!” And the tears flowed.
It was not at all what Cemre had expected her to say, but once she’d absorbed the words, they made perfect sense. The memory of Massimo’s garlic-coffee aroma filled her nostrils. She snorted outwards to make it go away, because she’d only met him once – well, twice now, actually. And she probably wouldn’t—
She clamped down on her thoughts. This was about Taurine, not her.
Her sister was sniffling again, wiping tears away before they could trickle down her cheeks and making an odd choking sound as if she was trying to swallow back any sobs that might try to escape. “It’s silly, I know—”
Cemre lifted her legs onto the bed and scrambled next to her sister, putting her arm around her. “It isn’t silly at all. It’s how you feel, and that’s never silly.”
“And then when we came back last night,” Taurine blurted amidst a flood of tears, “I realised how long it had been since I’d walked into the house and felt home . You know when you walk through the door and everything smells like . . . well, yours. That smell that is only in your house, where your family and your things are.”
Cemre did know. The minty scent of the penny royal on the path. The wood oil scent of what had once been a well-maintained door. And then inside, the combination of floor wax and snuffed-out candles and bygone roast dinners and that indefinable scent of home that she only ever found in her house and nowhere else, even if they used the same floor wax and burned the same candles and ate the same dinners.
“And I know I should be grateful that I even have a home, that we have food to eat – thanks to you. We could be on the streets. There are so many who are on the streets.” Taurine swallowed, but a sob burst out anyway. “And then we had such a wonderful night last night, and all I feel is . . .” She buried her face in Cemre’s shoulder and bawled.
Cemre threw her other arm around her and squeezed tight. But as much as she tried to hold her together, she felt her sister splintering into a million pieces.
She’d thought it had helped, cooking in a way that made up for what Taurine had lost. But there was so much more to it than that. She couldn’t fix this with food. Not even a little romance would do it.
A lead blanket of helplessness descended over her shoulders. Was she imagining sinking into the old lumpy mattress, about to be smothered by it and her sister’s tears? A giant rolling pin was pushing against her, ready to roll her flat, just like last night when—
Last night. When Mel had been there and told her about the doctor.
Cemre waited until Taurine’s weeping had subsided into the occasional shivery sigh, then patted her on the shoulder. When the poor girl lifted her sticky pink face, Cemre stole the handkerchief and dabbed at it gently. “We’re going to wash this face and get you dressed and have a cup of tea. And then I’m taking you out.”
Taurine sniffed and sunk back into her pillow. “Out where?”
“To someone who can help.”
Taurine shook her head. “It’s my head that’s the problem. I need to think about all the good things and not the . . .” A strangled sob rumbled inside her chest, and she hugged herself.
“You’ve already tried that.” Cemre clambered off the bed and held out both hands to her sister. “Come on. Time to try something new.”
***
After introducing Taurine to Thumper and finding some scraps for his breakfast, Cemre led her stepsister to the address Mel had provided. They found a long line of patients waiting, mostly women, Cemre noted, though they were of many different species. It wasn’t surprising so many had come to see the doctor who offered services for free and didn’t treat women as hysterical hypochondriacs.
It was some hours before they were able to see the lady doctor who called herself a “medick” but asked to be addressed as “Ellie”. Tall and graceful with pretty strawberry-gold ringlets framing her face, the woman seemed out of place in the cramped but cosily furnished consulting room. Cemre thought her much better suited to a throne in the palace, or at the very least, having a genteel tea party with the queen.
Unlike the opinionated male doctors who had called at their house or whom they’d visited in their rooms – in the distant past when they could still afford doctors – Ellie listened to Taurine with a serene but intent expression, occasionally asking a simple question. They sat in comfortable armchairs, no hefty desk segregating them, and instead of diplomas and charts on the walls, Ellie had pretty watercolours of herbs and flowers, some of them completely alien to Cemre. Ellie’s overall aura of calm seemed to loosen Taurine’s tongue, and she confessed to thoughts that shocked and saddened Cemre.
When Taurine finally ran out of words, Ellie patted her hand and gave her a reassuring smile. “There is hope,” she said simply. “I’m terribly sorry that you’ve been feeling this way for so long. But there is hope.”
The medick glided over to a cabinet and pulled open the top door, which dropped down into a counter, like a liquor cabinet. “We’ll start with improving your mood. It simply isn’t necessary to continue feeling as you do. You only need a little assistance.” She crushed dried leaves in a pestle and mortar, mixed together an assortment of liquids and powders, and finally produced a little glass jar of something honey-coloured.
“One teaspoon in the morning after breakfast,” she instructed. “You might feel drowsy or anxious at first, but that should disappear after two weeks when it reaches its full effect. If you don’t notice any change before the third week, we’ll try something different.” Her face turned stern, or as stern as such a kind face could be. “But you must take it every day. And you must come back in three weeks’ time.” She seated herself at her desk once more. “As for the sense of smell . . .” She opened a drawer and shuffled through some papers. “I believe there has been some success with olfactory training. I don’t have the research to hand, but I shall be certain to have it ready for you when you return. In the meantime, increase your intake of zinc and vitamin A. That means eggs, legumes, seeds, nuts, and plenty of orange and leafy green vegetables. Oh, and dairy, especially milk and yoghurt.”
Cemre’s stomach tightened. She hadn’t been providing enough of those things for Taurine. She grew what she could in their garden, but what she was able to scrounge was limited. Dairy especially was hard to come by, as it was usually too spoiled to salvage once kitchens and shops threw it out. Taurine might have been better already if only Cemre had been able to—
“What about you?” Ellie peered at Cemre with the all-seeing gaze of a hundred-eyed giant 1 . “Is there anything I can help you with?”
Cemre had already decided there was no time left for her own melancholy, a minor hiccup compared to Taurine’s. “I’m quite all right.” The afternoon was well along, and they still had to visit the costume shop to get her disguise. And she was determined to find some of those food items the medick had recommended for Taurine. Besides, she couldn’t risk drowsiness or any other side effects when she had an audition to face. After the audition , she told herself. I’ll come back then. “We are so grateful for your help. I’ll be sure to bring my sister back in three weeks.”
Yoghurt , thought Cemre as they left the premises and made for the costumer’s shop near the theatre. Where could she find yoghurt at this time of day? Or milk, perhaps?
“She was so lovely,” said Taurine, and was Cemre imagining it or were her sister’s steps a tiny bit lighter? “Do you think this will really work?” Taurine held up the little jar, turning it this way and that so the contents flashed amber in the light.
“Yes,” said Cemre resolutely. She trusted the medick and she trusted Mel, and she would find Taurine the food she needed if she had to search all day and night. Maybe it would be best if she gave up on the audition and focused on that instead. She probably wouldn’t pass the fussy judges’ inspection anyway. Her sister’s health was far more important.
“I’m excited to see the costumer’s shop,” said Taurine as she slipped the medicine into her pocket. “I’m certain there will be all kinds of interesting things in there.”
Well, if Taurine wanted to go there . . .
They found the place, a dimly lit collection of row upon row of clothes racks from floor to ceiling. Mel had provided coins to pay for the moustache, which Cemre told the costumer was for an amateur play – which it was, in a sense – and he cheerfully explained how to attach it with the accompanying glue.
They headed to the opposite side of Wenn next, to the Rag Market in Crinoline Lane. Cemre purchased two old pairs of socks. They had holes in them, but it wouldn’t matter where she’d be wearing them.
She wanted to pass a few places she thought might have some food scraps suitable for Taurine’s needs, but her sister was tired and eager to see Cemre in her disguise.
Finally home, Cemre stood in front of the mirror in Xanthan’s room, the only full-length one they hadn’t been able to sell because it was plastered into the wall. A stranger stared back at her.
Taurine and Rubella had helped her wrap a cloth around her torso to flatten her chest and clamp down her wings. Male fairies didn’t have the soft iridescent wings of females – theirs were more like bat wings – so it was best for Cemre not to let hers be seen. Fortunately, the boxy cut of the chef’s jacket hid her slender waist and distinctly unmanly hips. The hairy prosthetic on her lip rendered her unrecognizable, but her features still seemed too feminine, her jaw too smooth.
“You should have gotten a beard too,” yawned Rubella from her sprawled position on the carpet. She’d risen well after lunchtime and, after meeting Thumper and accepting his addition to the family with minimal perturbation, excitedly told Cemre of how they’d arrived home at sunrise and that the moment they’d set foot in the front garden, the carriage and horses Mel had conjured wafted away in the morning mist, as did their dresses once they’d changed into their nightclothes. Then she’d prattled on about the various “swells” she’d danced with and concluded that she didn’t feel inclined to be “hanged” 2 with any of them. She was quite disappointed that Cemre had left her choux behind and not brought the leftovers home as requested.
Taurine tucked a stray hair into Cemre’s chef cap. “The costumer had beards, didn’t he?”
“Yes, but . . .” Cemre pressed her fingers to the offending bare skin. “None of the chefs I saw at the palace had one. Maybe it’s not the fashion among them? I don’t want to stand out.”
“You still look like a girl,” said Thumper authoritatively. He lay beside Rubella on his stomach, legs bent at the knees and feet paddling the air like his new heroine. He’d taken to Rubella like a dryad to a tree, not leaving her side since she’d stumbled into the kitchen that afternoon in search of food.
The girl had been sweetly tolerant of her new appendage, perhaps even a little pleased to have a protégé, but Cemre wondered what would happen when Rubella had to return to school.
Xanthan twirled a gnarled finger in the air, and her threadbare armchair groaned. “Let’s see your walk again.”
Cemre did a lap around the room, still feeling quite naked in her trousers, as though she’d forgotten to put her petticoats and skirt on and was walking about in her bloomers. Safety-pinned to the waistband of her actual bloomers were the cuffs of one pair of socks; inside each one was another balled-up sock. She blushed every time she saw the bulge in the front of her pants. At least it forced her to walk with a more manly swagger as she tried to keep her legs from knocking against the dangling lumps.
“You look like you need the lavatory.”
“Rubella!” scolded Xanthan.
“What? She does.” The girl let her cheek slump against her fist, stretching her face farcically to make Thumper laugh. He immediately copied her.
“Put your shoulders back,” suggested Taurine, demonstrating and sticking out her chest. “Walk as if you own the world and no one would ever dare get in your way.”
Cemre tried again, thinking of the judges at her audition, their haughty self-assuredness. Her nose tipped up into the air and her chin pressed forward.
Xanthan clapped. “Much better.”
Taurine tucked yet another stray hair back into Cemre’s cap. “You’d best wear a hairnet under the hat. Your hair simply won’t stay put.” A muted half-giggle escaped her. She had a lightness about her since the medick visit – not exactly cheerfulness, rather as if she had something hopeful to occupy her mind.
“The hair won’t matter if she can’t get her voice to sound right.” Rubella sat back on her bum and stretched, and her shadow followed. “Never heard a man squeak like you.”
“You squeak like a mouse,” agreed Thumper – Cemre managed to refrain from pointing out his own high-pitched boyish voice – then threw an approval-seeking glance at Rubella. “You need to roar like a lion.” He dropped onto all fours and growled.
“You sound like you have a cold,” declared Rubella with a grin.
Thumper reared up and curled his “talons” at her. “Rwaaaar!”
“Perhaps that’s the answer,” exclaimed Xanthan. “Instead of simply trying to deepen your voice, why not make it rough, raspy, as if you have a cold?”
Taurine nodded. “That might actually work.”
Cemre croaked out a few experimental words, feeling as if her vocal cords were grating together.
“Much better!” said Taurine. “A little practice and no one will ever guess you’re a woman.”
“Unless they look at her chin,” pointed out Rubella.
Taurine waved her off. “No one will get that close, will they, Cemre?”
Cemre shook her head, focused on the face in the mirror. What if the judges didn’t fall for it? What if they recognized her right away and called the Constabulary? Could she be thrown in jail for pretending to be a man?
Xanthan shakily rose and hobbled over to Cemre. She tapped a gentle finger against the creases between her stepdaughter’s eyebrows. “You own the world, remember?” Then she whispered into her ear, “You deserve it too.”
Despite her building nerves, warmth flooded Cemre’s chest, and she smiled at her stepmother, caught Taurine’s eye in the mirror and smiled at her too, then looked down at Rubella playing “lions” with Thumper. If only it were just them in this world, their love binding them together, no worries or fears to weigh them down. She wanted a world that was just for them, a safe place where survival wasn’t a daily struggle. Her wings tingled beneath the bindings, wanting to flutter.
Once more she eyed the man in the mirror, thrusting out his flattened chest, jutting forward his confident jaw. She pressed his fists against his trousered thighs.
They didn’t have a world for themselves yet. But maybe she could win them one.
***
The following morning, Cemre left early for the audition. It was the very last day for them, her very last chance to get a place in the competition. Thumper accompanied her, Sparky secured in a pocket, and she hoped none of her neighbours thought anything of a chef and a grubby pixie boy strolling down the street.
Once again, she stood across the road from the warehouse containing the judges. Her mind wanted to go anywhere but through that door. It noticed the muddy, effluent smell of the river that wound through the industrial district. It flitted across the signs nailed to the walls of the brown-brick buildings. Greeb’s Finest Clurichaun Ale. Algernon’s Matchless Myrrh Tooth Powder. Genuine Caladrius Feather Pillows and Bedroom Specialties. It marked the passing of tradesmen and matchstick sellers and newspaper boys.
“Whatcha waitin’ for?” asked Thumper, peering up at her from a slightly cleaner face than the one he’d arrived with on the night of the ball. Cemre had finally convinced him to give it a cursory wipe with a damp cloth.
What was she waiting for? Mel to appear and fly her over the cobblestone street? She was only prolonging her own agony by hesitating.
“Let’s go,” she said, and after pausing for an onocentaur-drawn cart to pass, she crossed the road. At the door, she laid a hand on Thumper’s shoulder. “Thank you for coming with me. You’ll have to wait out here, though. You can’t come into the audition.”
Thumper shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets. A purple finger poked through a hole in one of them, and a scaled head peeped out the other.
Cemre stuck out her chest. I own the world. She pushed through the door.
“Morning,” said the neat, grey-haired receptionist. “Here to audition? Name?”
Cemre’s blood turned to ice. A name! She’d forgotten to choose a man’s name.
The signs outside flitted through her head.
“Algernon,” she blurted, thankfully remembering to put on her raspy man-voice. “Erm . . .” Cemre, ember, ashes . . . “Ashburn.”
The receptionist’s eyes narrowed for a split second, then her face was once again the picture of quiet efficiency and she entered the name on a form. “Place of residence?”
Confound it, Cemre hadn’t planned answers for any of these. “I can fill that out myself,” she suggested, hoping to buy herself time to come up with believable answers.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but we had the applicants do that in the beginning and I couldn’t read the chicken scratchings on half of them. Place of residence?”
Cemre would have to think on her feet. She surprised herself with the creative responses she was able to formulate, but the relief when the form was complete had her momentarily sagging. She quickly resumed her confident stance when the receptionist stood, instructed Cemre to have a seat, and went into the audition room.
A moment later, the door opened again, and the receptionist told her she could go inside.
This time, the three male judges were already seated at the table.
“Mr. Ashburn,” said the light elf, rising to his feet and extending a hand. Cemre strode forward with her best manly swagger and shook it. “Thank you for coming. I’m Sir Beckwith-Parsons, head judge. This is Mr. Bronson and Mr. Ogleby.”
Cemre could barely mutter a suitable pleasantry as she shook the hands of the other two judges. Were these the same men who’d been at her first audition? Their attitudes were so vastly different, she began to doubt her own eyes. They smiled at her, glanced at the pleats in her toque with clear approval, politely invited her to demonstrate her skills at the fully equipped workbench.
Except they weren’t smiling at her , were they? They were smiling at Mr. Algernon Ashburn.
Anger warred with fear as she ran her hands over the produce and tools at her disposal.
No. She would not be daunted by their bigotry.
I own the world. I own the world.
Keeping her chin jutted as if it was the only thing holding her body upright, she got to preparing her vegetables.
“Excellent chopping technique,” she heard Mr. Ogleby mutter to Mr. Bronson. She had seen their names often in the culinary news. Mr. Ogleby – the dark elf – owned three successful restaurants, while Mr. Bronson – the human – was a chef who’d written a number of popular cookbooks.
As for Sir Beckwith-Parsons, he was a food critic with a regular column in several newspapers and periodicals. Restaurants in Wenn lived or died by his words.
Teeth gritted, Cemre cooked the exact dish she had intended to make at her first audition.
The judges praised her skill all the way through, then raved about every bite as they tasted, applauding her in a smarmy way that congratulated their own genius in discovering her, in providing the perfect ingredients for her to showcase her talents.
It was all she could do not to throw a saucepan at them.
“Well,” said Sir Beckwith-Parsons, dabbing a napkin to his lips, “I don’t think we need to discuss it, do we, gentlemen? We’ve found our final competitor.” The light elf extended a hand. “Welcome to the competition, Mr. Ashburn. We look forward to seeing – and tasting – more of your work.”
Cemre blinked, her eyelids the only part of her that would move. Had she heard correctly? She’d gotten into the competition? It couldn’t be—
I own the world.
Recollecting herself, she nodded once as if she’d expected nothing less than to win a place, then shook the judge’s hand with what she hoped came across as assertiveness.
“See Mrs. Dudley at the reception on your way out,” said Mr. Bronson. “She will provide you with the appropriate forms and explain the accommodation arrangements.”
Cemre blenched. “Accommodation arrangements?”
“Yes. All the competitors will be sequestered at the theatre for the duration of the competition. To ensure that there is no outside interference or unfair advantage.”
The word ‘unfair’ hit her brain like a sledgehammer. Hypocrites. As if the whole process of selection wasn’t the unfairest of . . . well, unfair things.
If she opened her mouth, a scream would come out, so she simply nodded her head and exited the audition room.
***
“You got in!” sang Rubella as she grabbed Cemre and danced her around the kitchen. “You got in, you got in, you got in!”
“I got in,” Cemre sang back, allowing herself a brief moment to enjoy the thrill of success before the trepidation of what was to come fully sunk in.
“She took forever in there,” grumbled Thumper. He scratched Sparky’s chin and scowled. “I got hungry.”
“You’ll look after Thumper while I’m gone, won’t you?” said Cemre, rubbing her chin with the heel of her hand. Neither Xanthan nor Taurine had raised any objections to his sleeping in the kitchen, but surely they’d considered the burden of another belly to fill? Why hadn’t they taken her to task about it yet?
“’Course.” Rubella ruffled his dirty hair, which stood on end in all directions, though this wasn’t much of a change from his usual appearance. “We’ll do fine, won’t we, Thumper?”
The boy seemed to be having trouble deciding whether he was annoyed or pleased by Rubella’s mussing. “When’s lunch?” he muttered.
Cemre’s soaring heart burnt its wings and plummeted to earth. “Who will cook for you while I’m gone? Who’ll get the food?” It was vital that Taurine got all her nutrients. “Two weeks is a long time. Perhaps I shouldn’t—"
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Taurine spoke with a forcefulness Cemre had never heard from her before. “You’ve worked far too hard for this to pull out now. We can take care of ourselves if we all chip in, can’t we?” She sent Rubella a fierce look, and the younger sister nodded vigorously. “Rubella and I will come with you tomorrow to see where you get your leftover produce. Then we’ll figure out the rest on our own. Can’t be too hard to cook a dish like you, can it?” She winked, and Cemre’s eyes bulged. She couldn’t remember ever seeing Taurine wink.
Rubella let out an exaggerated sigh. “She’s just in high snuff because she got a letter from her prince this morning.”
Cemre’s wings fluttered. “Her prince?”
“He’s not mine.” Taurine scratched at an invisible mark on her skirt. “He was just enquiring after my health – after all of us. He’s very polite.”
“Of course.” Rubella wiggled her eyebrows. “It’s your health he’s interested in.”
Taurine rolled her eyes, but Cemre didn’t miss the shiver of her wings. She knew Ellie had said the medicine would take a little while to work, but Taurine’s mood already seemed to be lifting. Or maybe it was simply the promise that things might get better.
“Have you replied?” Cemre asked.
Taurine’s hand darted up to her neck and she stared at a spot on the floor. “Not yet.”
Guilt stabbed Cemre. Of course she hadn’t. Paper and ink cost money, not to mention the fee for delivery. If only they still had an automaton, then she could send a reply instantly. Of course, one still had to pay the subscription to the sylph network . . .
“I will, though,” Taurine added, her hand still wrapped around her neck. “He was kind enough to send a carrier caladrius and the appropriate stationery. I just . . . wasn’t certain what I ought to say. I’ve been a little tired . . .”
The drowsiness had begun soon after Taurine had taken her first dose. Cemre was glad she hadn’t gotten any for herself – she couldn’t have managed the audition otherwise.
And now she was going to be in the competition . . . Her visit to the medick would have to wait until afterwards.
A pang of guilt speared her. Mel had meant for Cemre to visit the doctor immediately. But surely she’d understand that Taurine was in a far worse state and needed the help more urgently? And Cemre could hardly hope to win the contest if she was falling asleep over the stove.
It was decided. She would visit Ellie after the competition. She’d manage until then. She’d managed this long, after all.
1. Centoculism is a rare phenomenon, with only one hundred-eyed giant born to every six hundred thousand two-eyed giants. This is good because caring for one hundred eyes can be something of a nightmare, with always one infected, scratched, or battling astigmatism. A single hundred-eyed giant can provide lifelong job security for the local optometrist.
2. Married.