Chapter 11
The scent of oiled leather and parchment neutralizes the stench of the binding glue. Wall-to-wall shelves, most of them packed to capacity with books and empty journals, provide an oddly soothing background.
Despite being a noble, my inheritance doesn’t belong to me.
It was handed over as a dowry and I need my husband’s permission to use what little is left.
Naturally, the rules of the land never cease to amaze me in the worst ways.
Most shop-owner families hire employees from outside their households.
But not mine. Mother’s greed has left us doing all the work, keeping the earnings within the family.
So, I hide away some for myself. I’ve earned it after all.
To be honest though, I quite like binding the books—there’s something soothing in the repetitive, intricate routine.
Being in the bindery in the cellar beneath my childhood home also makes me feel close to Father even in his absence.
Just as the pocket watch I keep with me provides comfort.
He loved books—from historical texts to epic adventures akin to children’s fables, he could never get enough of them.
Sunlight streams in through the window and across my workbench as I flick my finger toward the wooden book-binding block.
Propelled by my terraforging, the bolts that keep the blocks in place unscrew, the slabs of wood loosening, allowing the pages within to expand again.
I yank the freshly sewn book pages from between the slabs and unintentionally slam them onto the workbench with a loud thwack.
“Realms, Winnie!” Neris exclaims from her own workbench on the other side of the room. “Tell me how you truly feel!” She glances up, her paring knife poised over a cut of calfskin, her spectacles perched on the tip of her button nose.
“Apologies,” I mumble.
“It’s alright. It’s been a Gruff day for you.” She smirks at her own joke, and I groan.
“That was terrible, Neris.”
“Ah, you love my Gruffud puns,” she says, flicking her blond curls over her shoulder playfully. She giggles as she gets back to measuring, positioning the paring knife against the ruler to cut the excess from the calfskin cover.
We continue working in focused silence. I slide a fresh ream of pages into the book block and set it upright to begin making careful cuts along what will become the spine.
As I lift the small handsaw from my workbench, Neris calls to me in an odd, faraway voice.
I glance up just as she sets her blade aside.
There’s a recognizable dazed look on her face that makes my chest constrict.
But before I can remind the stubborn woman to sit down, she staggers back and drops like a ragdoll out of sight.
“Shite,” I whisper, running across the room.
On the floor behind her workbench, Neris’s body is rigid as a corpse, her spectacles akilter on her face.
Her limbs twitch in forewarning before the violent convulsions begin.
My stomach flips as I drop to my knees, removing her spectacles and turning her onto her side.
There’s nothing to do but to wait for the spasms to end, for my friend to come back to me, to breathe again.
Thank the stars the fit ends as quickly as it began, the color slowly creeping back into her face, her body going limp. I shift her, cradling her head in my lap as she drags in a heavy breath and releases it in an awkward whoosh as if she’s forgotten how to breathe.
“It’s alright,” I croon as I smooth back her silky curls again and again. “Can you take another breath?” It’s hard to keep the plea out of my voice.
Her eyes are still closed, pale lashes fluttering against her bluish cheeks, but she inhales deeply again.
I let out a sigh of relief, even as her saliva seeps into my dress, even as her head grows heavier in my lap.
“Stay awake,” I say gently. I feel like the worst person to force her to remain awake after her body just betrayed her.
With a small moan she lifts a shaky hand to the corner of her mouth and wipes frothy dribble away. “Your dress…” she whinges. “I’m sorry.”
A small, humorless laugh escapes me. “Dammit, Neris, I don’t care about my dress.”
“It’s disgusting,” she mutters.
I stare at her in disbelief. At least she’s already more like herself. After a few minutes, she sits up with effort and presses a shaky hand to her head. With a sigh she pushes her hair back from her sweaty forehead and licks her lips a few times. She still looks slightly dazed.
“I’ll get you some water.”
She nods. I stand and set her spectacles down on the workstation before heading over to the pitcher and crystal on a nearby table.
Neris sips the water slowly once I return.
I observe her closely—the unsteadiness in her hands, the exhausted slump of her shoulders—while anxiety continues to hammer in my chest.
“It’s been a long time since that’s happened while taking the tonics,” I say.
She ignores me and continues sipping the water.
“Neris?” My lips tug down.
Her glass is clearly empty, but she continues to feign drinking.
“Neris!”
She jumps and lowers the drinking glass with shaky hands. “Alright, I stopped taking the tonics. Or rather, I started rationing it. To stretch it. I figured it was better than running out and being completely without.”
I open my mouth to shout at her, but she interrupts.
“You’re doing the exact same thing with your elixirs!”
My mouth snaps shut.
Things have changed a lot since the queen’s death was announced.
For months, Radika has been having a harder and harder time replenishing her potions, medicines, and any magical contraband.
I used to get at least one month’s worth of my elixir with each visit.
Now, I’m lucky if I get enough to last me a week, and I end up having to find more time to sneak out to Radika’s makeshift workshop on the outskirts of the city.
When I speak up again, my voice comes out flat as I try to remain calm. “You didn’t say you were running low.”
“You’re still adjusting to this arranged marriage, your father’s situation, the shortage of your own elixir … I didn’t want to add my own shit to that.”
“Well, you should’ve.”
She looks guilty but forces a smirk onto her face. “I’m running low?”
“Dammit, Reneris, now is not the time for jokes!”
She makes a face. “Ooh, you called me Reneris. You must be serious.”
“I am serious! This is serious. The kingdom is a mess. Who’s to say that Mainland isn’t going to face the same Undesirable rules as the Grounders face. You’ve heard the servants’ stories about raids. About people being hanged just for having an ailment.”
“Alright, I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s just that you’re already working your arse off to get through each day. I didn’t want to further overwhelm you.”
“Neris. You mean more to me than anything else. Please risk overwhelming me. You’re more a sister to me than Arionna has ever been. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” I stand and take her hand, pulling her to her feet. “Now go take the damn medicine before you relapse again.”
She salutes. “Yes, ma’am.”
As she walks off, I pick up the crystal cup to return it to the table.
I pour myself some water, and as I turn with the freshly filled glass, a tingling sensation glazes over my skin.
A figure materializes before me, covered from head to toe in a grey, tattered cloak.
I gasp and drop the glass, which shatters.
I bump my hip into the table, causing the pitcher to fall over.
Water spills, pooling on the table and overflowing onto the floor.
The figure holds a withered, almost greyish hand to blue lips, the only thing visible under the cloak. The book bindery dissolves around me, and a dark, misty forest appears with a gigantic tree stretching toward the sky.
That damn tree again!
This isn’t the first time I’ve seen it. It’s appeared in my dreams many times before, always accompanied by an inexplicable desire to travel northward, away from here.
A shattering sound fills my ears, and I wince, closing my eyes. When I open them again, I’m back in the bindery, and the figure is nowhere in sight.
My heart is in my throat, cutting off my air supply. It takes a while before I can catch my breath again. Where the figure stood, four symbols glow on the floor. A singular spiral, three whorls, a cross within a circle, and a triquetra. But in a blink, they’re all gone.
Realms above, what on earth is happening to me?
I need sleep.
I’ve been taking half an elixir every day, and it only takes the edge off the pain.
By dinner tonight, the daily ache was already starting to sink in.
Now, as I lay in bed, the sheets drawn up to my chin as Gruffud snores loudly beside me, the pain infiltrates my senses until I can’t ignore it anymore.
I stumble out of bed and don my nightgown, then my silk housecoat.
I cinch it tightly around my waist and grab the oil lantern to light my way.
As I step into the corridor, the flame casts eerie shadows in the hallway. My pulse spikes as my vision darkens and wanes at the edges. I grip the banister with my slick palm and pad down the staircase. I just need to make it outside, get the herbal mixture, and brew the tea Radika gave me.
Cold sweat breaks out on my skin as I step outside and make my way to where I keep my elixirs buried.
I close my eyes, breathing slowly as I draw the stony box from the earth and pluck the satchel of herbs from inside.
Burying the box again takes more effort than usual, but finally, I make my way back into the kitchen and force my bare feet to take me toward the kettle hanging in the woodburning oven.
Water sloshes inside the kettle when I jostle it, so I light the logs with the flint and tinder while sweat continues to dampen my nightgown. Bone deep pain in my thighs forces me to my knees moments before a searing sensation pours down my throat.
Stars spot my vision as pain ripples through my senses.
The world disappears. Saliva floods my mouth, and I gag.
When my arms fail to hold me upright any longer, the cold kitchen floor against my cheek shocks my senses, keeping me fully conscious and aware.
The slash of agony across my abdomen is a sadistic reenactment of the initial effects of the Cleanse a year ago.
I curl into myself, breathless and nauseated, dizzy, hot and cold.
I’m not sure how long I lie on the floor, shivering and biting back groans of distress, but a voice wavers in and out of my senses. “Lady Gwyneth?” Sage’s airy voice has gone shrill. Too loud.
My eyes blink open, my sight bleary.
“Do you need me to get Gruffud? Call for a healer?”
I push myself up on wobbly arms as the kettle starts to scream. “No,” I grind out. I pause to swallow the acrid vomit that rises into my throat. “I just need tea. It’s from a healer.”
Sage squats in front of me, her plump face shifting in and out of focus. Her eyes drop to the satchel that’s fallen to the floor. She picks it up, holding the pouch before my face. “This?” she asks.
I nod, and the motion makes my head and neck ache.
“Alright, I’ll make the tea and add tepid water to cool it down.”
I must lose consciousness for a moment, because the next thing I know, there’s a clammy hand on my face.
I peel my eyelids back and force my eyes as wide as I can.
Sage sets something down with a dull clink and hoists me up, pain skittering across my sensitive skin.
She braces me upright somehow and holds a porcelain teacup to my lips.
“Sip slowly, Lady Gwyneth.” Her voice is quiet and gentle for once.
The liquid still scalds my tongue and the roof of my mouth, but I drink it anyway.
Perspiration cools on my skin and the pain slowly begins to fade as exhaustion seeps in.
“One more sip,” Sage coaxes. I barely get the liquid in my mouth before someone shouts over the gentle crackle of the woodstove.
“What in hells is going on in here?”
Sage jumps to her feet and steps aside, making way for Gruffud. Shite … His face is even more menacing than usual in the light of the oil lamp. He sets it down on the table within reach and bends to grab my arm. Pain flares through my still-sensitive body as he hauls me to my feet.
“What is wrong with you?” he demands, his grip unfaltering.
“I—” The words snag in my throat as his eyes roam my body, my face.
He turns to Sage. “Perhaps you have better sense than my imbecile wife here. What is going on?”
“Lady Gwyneth is feeling unwell, my lord. I am simply helping her. Digestive troubles.” Her eyes dart to me apologetically, and I hope she knows I appreciate her attempt to cover for me.
“It isn’t the first time you’ve been unwell.
” He grinds out the last word as though it disgusts him.
I try not to whimper from his grip still on my arm.
“Of course, I had to be stuck with damaged goods.” He releases me with a shove, and as if my legs have turned to pudding, I drop to the floor with a small cry.
Gruffud marches out of the kitchen, leaving the door to swing behind him as I get to my knees and rub my throbbing tailbone. Sage’s eyes brim with tears as she hurries to help me to my feet again. “Let me help you back to bed, Lady Gwyneth,” she says. “Though, I can imagine you aren’t in a rush.”
To my surprise, wet laughter rushes from me. “I wouldn’t mind sitting at the table for a moment to gather my bearings, thank you.”
With Sage’s silence to keep me company, I sit at the table until the pain ebbs and my senses begin to numb as though I’ve consumed too much fermented drink.
Sage helps me to bed as I drift and stagger, depositing me beside a snoring Gruffud.
I whisper my thanks, and before she’s even out of the room, I drift off.