“Perhaps we should focus on the report,” Lord Wilkin cut in sharply. For once, Idabel was grateful for his harsh attitude. The doctor’s line of questioning hinted that he was not ignorant of what a bite meant, and her unease was growing.
“Right. Yes. The report.” The doctor fumbled a notebook from his satchel while Hannalinde gracefully produced a quill and ink from a writing desk nearby. Aelbert’s notes sprawled across the page in barely legible excitement as he muttered under his breath. “Puncture depth indicates an adult gargoyle, significant jaw strength. Healing pattern shows complete acceptance. Her body did not reject the bite.”
Idabel’s skin crawled. “Reject it?”
“Oh yes, I’ve seen it in the literature for gargoyle bites, specifically gargoyles biting dragons. Bites can cause terrible scarring. The flesh actually attempts to push out the foreign magic. But yours” —he gestured eagerly—”perfect integration. Your blood has accepted his or her bite completely.”
“Which gargoyle did this?” Lord Wilkin asked, his casual tone at odds with his intense stare.
Her heart stilled. This was the moment. “I don’t know his name.”
“A male, then.” Aelbert made another note. “What did he look like?”
She swallowed hard. “I didn’t see.”
“Come now.” Lord Wilkin’s smile had a sharp edge. “You expect us to believe a gargoyle attacked you and you didn’t catch a glimpse?”
“It happened quickly.” She kept her answer short because she had little confidence she could keep her voice steady any longer.
“Surely you could describe something about him? His horns, perhaps? His attire?”
“Father,” Hannalinde interrupted softly. “We shouldn’t press. This must be difficult enough.” She leaned to refill Idabel’s teacup.
Lord Wilkin’s expression shifted from mild peevishness to paternal indulgence. “Of course. Forgive me, my dear. Thoughthe king will want details eventually. We must root out the perpetrator so he can be made an example of.”
The image of Brandt flying away from her, dirt raining from the roots of her garden flashed through her mind. The injustice of that moment. Without it, she never would have met him, so she could not regret it…except that without it, his career would not be in jeopardy.
Idabel gathered what was left of her courage. “After the Sixth Watch deploys I will think more on it,” she said firmly. “I won’t disrupt the war effort with accusations that can wait.”
“How unexpectedly patriotic.” Lord Wilkin exchanged a meaningful look with Doctor Aelbert. “Very well. The name can wait. All that’s left is the blood.”
Idabel’s stomach dropped. “Blood?”
“Essential component!” Aelbert nearly bounced with enthusiasm. “Blood carries the gargoyle’s signature. I have studied the—that is, we need it for evidence. To show the king.”
“What sort of evidence requires blood?” Betje’s tone had gone dangerously polite.
“The kind that proves…” Lord Wilkin paused, searching for the words. “The depth of the violation. Hannalinde, my dove, you may step out for the bloodletting.”
“I don’t mind.” The lord’s daughter sat forward for a better view.
Betje gave her an approving pat on the shoulder. “We women are used to the sight of blood, my lord.”
“My daughter is accustomed to no such thing,” Lord Wilkin said frostily. “She will retire to her rooms.”
Hannalinde gathered her skirts with an apologetic curtsy. “I regret leaving guests in the parlor, but my father is right. I am late to my diction lessons and must beg your pardon.”
“Of course, you are forgiven.” Her father waited until the door latched behind her before nodding to Aelbert. “Proceed.”
Doctor Aelbert produced a brass scarificator from his satchel with reverent care and placed it in a clean teacup, then spread out a linen tea cloth on the small table next to Idabel. He gestured to her and then the cloth. “Your arm, please. This is perfectly safe, I assure you. I’ve done this many times. You have nothing to fear.”
Dubiously, Idabel laid her arm on the towel, which someone—Hannalinde, probably—had embroidered with tiny green leaves and pink roses, and Idabel focused on them. They were beautifully stitched in miniature and almost looked alive, their delicate vines flourishing along the edge of the fabric.
It was a good reminder why she was doing this. Not only so she could grow her herbs and afford an apprenticeship. It was for everyone’s benefit if the gargoyle’s grip on Solvantis loosened a bit, wasn’t it? So people could grow their own food. So Betje could use her gifts without breaking the law. Hannalinde could have roses climbing a trellis at her window.
The doctor cocked the multibladed tool and set it against the skin of her inner elbow while Betje watched, her disapproval etched in lines on her forehead.
“It’s fine,” Idabel reassured her, seconds before Aelbert released the lever. The device bit into her skin with stinging precision. The doctor replaced the scarificator with the teacup and turned her arm over on top of it, so her welling blood streamed into the thin porcelain vessel. The ready flow made her feel queasy, so she turned her head away, looking instead at the faces of the others in the room.
