"I know."
"The paste is gone, Kestria."
"I know that too." She sits on my sleeping pallet, the only real seating, and pats the space beside her. "Sit down."
"I can't sit down. I need to—wash my hands. Check on Bren. Inventory whatever's left of my supplies, which is nothing, it's all nothing—"
"Mel. Sit."
I sit. My legs fold under me and my back hits the wall and my hands are drying with paste in the creases of my knuckles.
"The paste was thin," I say. "Way too thin. It took fifty-two minutes for the fever to break. Usually it's forty. Thirty-five with enough paste."
"But it broke."
"This time. What about next time? What about when it's a deeper wound, or two wounds, or someone out on patrol who can't get back fast enough?" I sound like a teakettle with opinions. "I have nothing, Kestria. Empty jars. Dead flowers. I'm supposed to be the healer and I have nothing to heal with."
"So we find more."
"Where? I know one field. One. Near a cottage I can't go back to because there could be more very rude people watching it."
"You won't go alone."
"Everyone keeps saying that. You, Keer—"
"Keersaid that?"
"It came up. Logistically." I scrub my face with my hands. Dirt and paste against my eyelids.
She's quiet for a beat too long. I know that quiet.
"Don't."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to. He's asking around if anyone's seen moonbright in the territory."
"Good.”
"Good? Kestria. Do you really think ANYONE here has been paying attention towildflowerswhile they were out hunting rabbits?”
"Some of them might have. Rhen's sharp. He notices terrain." She pauses. Watching me. "So. You talked to Keer."
"About paste."
"And?"
"And what?"
"Nothing." She's picking at a thread on my blanket. Not looking at me. Then looking at me. "Your face is purple."
"It's purple-green. Very colorful. Went looking for colorful flowers. Brought back a colorful face."
I hold up the empty jar.
"That's everything?"
"That's everything. And I can't make more without flowers. The processing takes time—harvesting, drying, grinding, mixing. Even if someone walks in the door right now with an armful of moonbright, I'm days from usable paste."
