"I do not know." Floris hesitated. "Better caution than regret. He wants you alive, but if you die before he can stop it, he will move mountains to ensure your flesh does not turn to dust." She traced her finger over the edge of Luella’s wing. Luella flinched away violently at the touch. "Apologies. I have never seen an angel before. Your wings… they are"—her voice dropped—"extraordinary."
Luella opened her eyes. The edges of the cloth pressed over her lids, slightly obscuring her vision. "They would be if I could use them." She coughed weakly, unable to lift her hand and cover her mouth.
Floris’s blue eyes grew soft with empathy. She leaned in and fussed over the cloth, brushing Luella’s hair away from her face. As she did so, she whispered, "I heard you did. When you escaped Ambrose. It was all the Umbra could speak about—how you slighted him and escaped him."
Desara glanced over, and Floris pulled away slightly, busying herself with brushing a substance over Luella’s pulse point beneath her ear.
Floris lifted the small glass bottle, once more pressing it against Luella’s mouth and murmuring, "It is only to temper your fever. Nothing more, I swear it."
Luella drank. It tasted of nothing.
When Desara returned to mixing the potion, Floris continued:
"He killed someone for it, did you know that? He was so angry that you bested him, he returned to the palace in a rage. The Tenebrae punished him, and Ambrose was unable to appear in court for a few days while he healed, but when he returned, he was so angry. I’ve never seen him so angry." A faint, fleeting smile graced her lips. "One of the Umbra mentioned it, and Ambrose killed them. Snapped his neck in the middle ofa dinner. I wasn’t there—but the cooks, they talk. Word always travels to those of us who live below the castle."
Something bloomed inside Luella. Floris was not an Umbra, and she seemed obviously angry at her situation. The kind words were the most she’d heard of another’s voice in weeks.
Luella mustered strength, then used her good hand to grab Floris’s wrist. Her strength was paltry, but the touch made the healer still. "I’m glad I could make him angry, then. If only I could have shoved him off the cliffside. Caliban, too," Luella murmured carefully.
Floris grew rigid. "Be careful when you speak of things like that." Her eyes darted to Desara. "The ones who are not Umbra, we either had to prove our loyalty, or we have family or loved ones, used against us if we rebel. It does not mean we agree; most do not. But we’d rather have our autonomy and pretend to be loyal than be forced to obey him. Tread carefully, Princess." Floris said the last words as the barest of whispers. Her eyes sparked with a fire Luella wished she had.
Luella nodded faintly. "I understand."
They grew quiet, and eventually Desara walked over and knelt, a dark red, nearly black, liquid in a glass cup. Her white and black hair was pulled in a tight bun at the nape of her neck, her pointed ears on display.
"You will drink this." The scratchy note to her voice drew out the words. "It will allow the sickness inside you to be burned out. You will have to drink it every day. Master will not tell us how you grew to be sick. I have not seen a fever like this before, but I have read about it centuries ago." Her expression turned knowing. "Your body will burn through it quickly. I will have stock made up to ensure you have an ample supply." She crouched down, shoving the lip of the glass to Luella’s mouth.
It smelled like rotting cherries and spoiled meat. Luella tried to hold back a sneeze as the bubbles on the surface tickled her nose.
"Where have you—" Luella broke off in a coughing fit, each rattling one making her chest tighten. "Where have you read about a sickness like this before?"
"Drink and I might tell you."
Luella sighed and opened her mouth, allowing Desara to tilt the glass and pour the liquid into her mouth. It fizzled all the way until it hit her stomach, settling inside her like a rock.
The effect was not quite instantaneous. Floris touched her forehead once more, mumbling something to Desara. They spoke quietly.
"So…" Luella prodded. "I did what you asked. Where have you read about an illness like this one?"
Desara began to gather her supplies. "In a book," she replied.
Floris watched the other healer with tired eyes. When her attention shifted to Luella, a torn expression befell her delicate face. She tapped her finger on her knee, then shook her head.
"We will be back," said Desara, when the two healers stood by the cell doorway. "The elixir will make you drowsy as it wears off, but for now, your body is pushed to its limits trying to burn away the fever. Let it run its course."
When they left, Luella did not move—too tired to sleep, too sick to even curl up and attempt it.
What would it take to get them to help her escape?
Floris was clearly sympathetic. Desaramustbe, as well. How could she not? Forced to comply with the whims of a sadist god wearing a male’s skin. It would make anyone resentful and angry. But Desara seemed more inclined to direct that ire onto Luella.
She lay there, deep in thought, until sweat dripped down her back as the elixir worked through her bloodstream. When shefelt as if all the liquid in her body had been drained, throat dry and aching, she began to shiver.
The next day, Luella was forced to drink another elixir. This time, she knew the taste, so her throat closed up in anticipation of the vile flavor right before it was poured into her awaiting mouth.
The healers hadn’t lied. Luella had felt better—but it hadn’t lasted long. Soon after Desara and Floris had left the day before, Luella had shivered until she’d fallen into a fitful, nightmarish sleep, awakening constantly to sore muscles and an ache in the pit of her stomach. At least her head no longer throbbed.
She’d been slowly growing sicker as the day had passed.
