The next morning came slowly. Sunlight once again bled through the curtains, soft and harmless, but I stayed in bed.
I didn’t feel ready. Not to get up. Not to pretend like everything was fine.
There was a gentle knock, and then Iria’s voice came through the door. “May I come in?”
I had barely time to answer before the door opened. Maybe she still used to me not being able to speak.
In her hand, she held a small glass vial. It glinted faintly in the light, a thin, clear bottle, stoppered with cork, filled with somethingdark and viscous. Almost black, with a red undertone, kind of like wine.
She didn’t meet my eyes when she spoke. “We give this to girls after raids. After soldiers.”
I looked at the vial, and my throat tightened.
“You take it,” she continued, “and it keeps anything else from taking root.”
Taking root.
It hit me then. I hadn’t even thought of it. Not once.
Not through the fire, or the bleeding, or the pain. My body had felt so ruined, so empty, that it hadn’t occurred to me that something could’ve stayed behind.
But of course it could’ve. I couldn’t think about it for another second.
Iria walked to the bedside and offered the vial, holding it carefully by the neck.
“It’s bitter,” she said, “but it works.”
I took it, my fingers closed around the cool glass, the liquid rippled inside as I raised it.
“It’s made from black yarrow and dryroot,” Iria added. “I took it once, too. Long ago.”
My heart sank at the thought.
Iria bore as much pain as I did.
“You’ll bleed in a day or two,” she went on. “And that’ll be the end of it. Not of the pain.” A pause. “But of the rest.”
I didn’t hesitate, I pulled the cork and drank it all in one go. The taste hit immediately—bitter, metallic, sharp like old tea and rust.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, then held the empty vial out to her.
She took it without a word. Her fingers lingered around the glass, just for a moment, before she turned toward the door.
“If it hurts too much when it starts,” she said, pausing in the doorway, “come find me.”
And then she was gone.
Eventually, I swung my legs over the side of the bed. Not because I felt better, just because I didn’t want to rot in the sheets. I put on the dress Will had given me and made my way to the washroom.
It was the kind of space that belonged to someone who took care of things. Someone who paid attention to detail. Pale blue tiles lined the floor and lower walls, a deep porcelain basin stood beneath the window, with brass taps shaped like swan heads. Everything was neat. Clean. Gilded, even.
The mirror above the basin was framed in soft gold, and for a moment, I just stared at it all. I never knew that Will had wealthy relatives. Him and his mother lived in a house smaller than mine, and she bounced between jobs and wore holes in her shoes. If I had that kind of money, I would’ve shared it with my family. With my brother.
I wondered if Will and his mother could have left Novil to live there, with Iria. If they’d ever thought of it. Why didn’t they?
The mirror caught my reflection and I flinched. I looked hollow. Bones pushing up beneath my skin like they wanted out. The tap creaked when I turned it, then water spilled out, clear, cold. Testing it with my fingers did nothing to prepare me. The first splash hurt. So I did it again. Water ran down my face, my neck, soaked into the fabric of my dress. I kept going, each handful colder than the last, until the chill worked its way under my skin. Until something inside me finally went quiet.
The kitchen was too bright. Too warm. It smelled of butter and eggs and something sweet, and it all felt too good to be real. Iria stood by the cast iron stove, humming softly under her breath. The room was warm and lived-in, with copper pans hanging on the wall and dried herbs strung from the ceiling beams like offerings. Jars lined the shelves, lentils, flour, beans. A kettle hissed softly.
