He sighed and sat down, rolling up his sleeve as the doctor bent closer.
“Hmm, this one is swollen.” He touched Yassen’s elbow with a gloved hand, and her guard hissed. “Have you been cleaning it?”
“Yes,” Yassen said.
“Still, it is infected. It’s minor for now, but let’s get you cleaned up, before it gets worse. Have you felt any symptoms? Any headaches, nausea?”
His eyes met hers. For a moment, she saw his indecision, his fear. She wished she could reach for him, lend him whatever strength she had left.
“Just some tingling,” Yassen said finally.
“Tingling?” The doctor chewed his lip. “Burns can cause nerve damage, but it should fade away, if you address the infection. Is it painful?”
“It passes,” Yassen said.
The doctor gathered the empty vials and the syringe. He dropped them in a heated bin and turned on the burner; a warm glow spread along the white walls. He then offered Yassen two bottles of pills and a cream.
“These two are to stop the infection from spreading,” he said, holding the cream and a bottle. He then held up the other bottle. “Tell Her Highness’s handmaid to give her this every night for the next two nights, but no more. The coronation is nearly upon us, and we can’t have her groggy.”
Elena blinked. She wanted to tell them that she couldn’t take the medicine—that the ball was in a few days, and she needed to practice her dance with Samson, but her mind and lips veered in different directions. She sagged forward, whimpering. Yassen caught her and gently pushed her back into the bed.
“You need rest,” he said.
He leaned over, adjusting her pillow, and she smelled death on his shoulder—a sickly, sweet smell that reminded her of overripe grapes left out in the sun. The doctor dimmed the lights. Shadows stretched along the walls, and Yassen paused. He stroked her hair, and then his hand hovered by her cheek.
Stay, she thought.
But he was pulling away. The shadows came down the walls and into her eyes. They washed over her and pulled her down, piled on like layers of sand, like the dunes shifting and growing, burying her alive. Her eyelids fluttered. Yassen grew smaller.
Don’t leave, she wanted to say, but he was already gone.
Elena awoke to a cool hand pressing against her forehead. She moaned, and the hand moved away.
“Your Highness.”
It was Diya’s voice.
She heard a rustle of fabric and felt Diya rise from the bed. Elena opened her eyes slowly, blinking away the heavy mantle of sleep. She was back in her room. A bowl of iced water sat on her bedside table along with the small square of a letter. A breeze stirred the curtains, and she smelled iron.
Diya returned to her side, cradling a bowl of fragrant broth. She stirred, raised the spoon, and held it to Elena’s lips.
“Drink,” she ordered.
Elena drank. The soup stung her tongue, but its warmth seeped down her throat and fanned out across her chest. Suddenly, hunger pressed against the sides of her stomach. She grabbed the bowl and raised it to her lips. Diya watched as she desperately slurped, catching the drops that dribbled down Elena’s chin with a kerchief.
“I can get more,” she offered.
Elena shook her head and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. She gazed around her room and was struck by its emptiness.
“Where’s Ferma?” she asked.
Diya took the bowl from her hands and set it down. She gently cupped Elena’s hands in hers.
“Your Highness, Ferma is dead.”
Elena stared at her. “No.”
But Diya squeezed her hands, her voice soft and full of sympathy. “She fought bravely.”
