Chapter 5
Taera
Icatch my breath quickly, flushing at the shame of having fled the bedside of a sick man.
But my feet refuse to carry me back inside.
I avoid Ezran’s gaze, rinsing the remnants of the purple herbs off my hands with a careful trickle from my waterskin.
The waste stings. So does the thought of another trip to the well, my legs and back already tender, muscles protesting after yesterday.
A hot, dusty, uncertain minute passes before the door cracks open again. Clarice slips out, followed by her mother. They’re both pale, and Clarice holds out my necklace with trembling fingers.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know he’d…”
“Thanks.” My fingers are clammy as I accept it. Looping the cord back around my neck sends a rush of relief through me, bordering on overwhelming.
“Thank you for trying.” Her mother fumbles with a purse. “What—how much do we owe you?”
Horror and guilt bloom in my chest. I was the one who caused Clarice’s father to lash out in a fit of madness. I wave her purse away, queasy. “You owe me nothing.”
“Nonsense.” She won’t meet my eye as she pulls out a silver penny. “For the herbs.”
The coin catches the light. A single silver would mean new shoes for Ezran, to protect him from his own stupidity, with more than enough remaining to wipe clean all the small debts piling up like dust.
I look back at the shadows behind the still-cracked door and feel sick to my stomach.
How could I even consider taking their money?
Clarice’s father will need full-time care until the sands take him, leaving them worse off than my own family, not to mention losing their most calloused pair of hands.
“I won’t take your money,” I make myself say. I’ll find a way to pay for the herbs myself. Like I always do.
Their family wagered all their hopes—and savings—on sending Clarice to the city. Any remaining future rests on her shoulders. The envy I had for Clarice blows away, replaced by grim sympathy. The harvest is going to be hard on them. Perhaps Ezran can lend his help in exchange for grain.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.” I’m already backing away. “When the wind calls him, I hope he goes easily.”
I turn, hiding the pinch in my expression.
I should never have come. Shouldn’t have offered false hope.
I’ve only made things worse. And all because of my own inadequacy, my lack of skill and knowledge.
Now they’re hurting more, and there’s nothing I can say, nothing I can do, that will make it better, the sacrifice the desert has demanded.
I couldn’t save Clarice’s father, just like I couldn’t save my own mother.
Just another person the desert has taken.
“Come on, Ez,” I say.
Numbly, my shuffling feet lead us back to the door of the apothecary.
Turning to my brother, I brace myself. “You alright?”
“Yeah.” His eyes are still wide and spacey. I’m not sure I believe him.
“Wait here. I have something for your ankle.”
“Right.”
Leaving him alone out here after what he just saw sets my nerves on edge—the prickly sense of being watched hasn’t faded—but we’ll have to talk about it later.
Inside, I quickly grind a poultice of globemallow and three-toothed yellowleaf—or that smelly yellow flower as Ezran calls it—adding two drops of expensive tea tree oil. The crisp aroma burns my sinuses, calming me.
I take a cloth with me back outside and get Ezran to hold it until I apply the salve. He winces at the sting, but we both remain unusually quiet as I wrap his ankle.
“I’ll see you back at home,” I say, standing up again.
“See you,” he mumbles, taking up his walking stick and turning away. I watch him limp off, looking around to try to pinpoint why I feel watched. There’s nothing.
I sigh, stepping back inside. Must not have slept enough.
I wash this morning’s impromptu tincture equipment and take inventory.
With no fresh yarrow, Gramps’s medicine will be even weaker than last week.
I pull out the thick oranged piece of parchment where I chart the sand tides.
Two more days until I can scavenge again, until I can make him something stronger.
Gramps won’t complain, but I hate not being able to do more for him.
I crush leaves and blend powders to fill orders, trying to distract myself. But when the fragrance of bruised rosehip rises from the mortar, my hands start to tremble. I don’t stop, even as the memories wash over me—the desperation of every recipe I tried, thinking it might fix her.
If I stop, the memories win.
I count the bundles of snippings twice before the number sticks in my head.
Last, I face the ledger.
I open the heavy book with care. The leather binding is crusty, the stiff paper delicate and dry.
For the dozenth time, I imagine fudging the numbers.
The thimble flower could have gone bad. I could nudge the scale, measuring on the left side where it tips a little further.
Tiny lies. Easy lies. I hate myself for thinking about it.
But just like the sand, I know that if I ever cross that line, one lie will lead to another.
I’d have to look Gramps in the eye and tell him where the fresh medicine came from.
If he ever found out I had deceived him, he would never drink his tea again.
When we have to eat our own waterskins, that’s when I’ll resort to lying like a mage. Until then, I’d rather repay every single debt than give up my integrity.
My eyes drift, unfocused, and I sag against the counter. My legs have stiffened and my heart aches. My earlier arrogance twists inside me—thinking I might be able to cure desert sickness despite my complete lack of training. Guilt burbles in my stomach, and I deserve my throbbing headache.
“Miss Delodin.”
I jump to my feet.
The shopkeeper, an unassuming older woman with a squint and big, bustling skirts, hurries through the door.
I straighten my shoulders, but too late.
She’s caught me just staring at the dirt floor.
I wince. I can’t lose this job. It’s my lifeline.
And my only connection to the world of healing, a world I can’t quite reach.
“Mrs. Emsworth.” I nod, lowering my eyes.
“For you.” She wastes no breath, holding out a thin pouch until I take it.
It hardly has any weight to it, and I gulp, trying not to appear ravenous for whatever’s inside.
I open it slowly. Two knots and a copper piece.
Hardly enough for a bite of meat, let alone the shoes Ez needs. My mouth tastes gritty.
“Would I… be able to work tomorrow afternoon?” I ask.
The woman huffs, her pursed lips hardening. “Sorry, Taera. Even my pockets are tight these days.”
With nothing left to say, she squints over the lines of the ledger. Then she shuts it, puts it in a large satchel, and leaves.
My mind whirls at the thought of the early mornings ahead. I’m going to have to be up with the sun for a chance to scavenge, and the tide won’t even be completely out. I’ll have to trade, rather than sell, which will also take time. My breaths come heavily, even inside the cool of the apothecary.
I can only press on.
When I’ve prepared and packed everything I can, I close up the shop, and step outside.
The heat hits hard. The trudge toward home grinds through my legs, muscles flaring with each step.
My fingers keep drifting to the pouch on my belt, its meager weight.
I shouldn’t linger under the sun, but I can’t quite face Gramps’s sympathy.
He’ll give me that unbearable look of understanding and refuse to take anything for his joints.
Worse, Ez will decide it’s his responsibility to start providing for the family, and—
A flash of blue glimmers on the path ahead.
There should only be orange and brown.
I stare, my eyes flitting up and toward the sands, which seem to stare back. Just a mirage. I shouldn’t have given in to my curiosity. I curse myself, swaying slightly on my feet.
Don’t look at the desert.
I try to remember how to look away.
Ezran. I have to get home to him and Gramps. Dragging my eyes down, I hurry along the road and back to our hut. I don’t look up again until I’m outside the door.
“Taera.” Ezran’s voice makes me look up. He’s outside, halfheartedly sweeping the garden with one hand while still leaning heavily on his stick with the other. I notice the way he favors his right side, but clamp down on the spike of worry.
“You don’t have to do that in the heat of the day, Ez,” I say.
“I—” He blinks. “What happened to Clarice’s father? Did you go back?”
“There was nothing I could do. The desert will take him soon.” My voice scrapes out rough.
Heat prickles across my cheeks—the humiliation of trying to help, the resentment.
He shouldn’t have to ask what happened to Clarice’s father, or what I’ve been doing.
“I’ve been at the apothecary all afternoon. ”
“Oh, then you were paid?” Ez perks up, dropping the broom. Of course he remembers that.
I sigh, deciding to rip the bandage off quickly. Pulling the thin pouch from my belt, I toss it to him. He grabs it easily out of the air with a whoop, then frowns, weighing it in his palm, and tugs it open. “That’s it?”
“There are only so many hours of work to do there.”
“Last week you made double.”
I grind my teeth together. I don’t like sharing every detail of the pinch we’re in. I step forward and take the pouch back from him, tucking it safely away.
“Taera,” he protests. “We don’t keep things from each other.”
He’s right. Honesty is the only rebellion against the lies of the desert.
“Last week I collected half of the ingredients Gramps needed,” I say plainly, “rather than taking the yarrow and sarsaparilla out of my wages.”
Ez’s eyes round. “You didn’t tell me you had to pay for those.”
“Where do you think they come from? It was all I managed to harvest before you got stung and—” I’m already regretting my sharp words.