Page 46 of The Infirmary for Dragon Burns and Midair Mishaps

Eden placed my prosthesis on her desk, those brown eyes, almost gold in the candlelight, inspecting it carefully.

“How were the patients from town?” I asked. “Any serious injuries?”

She shook her head, dropping a bag onto her desk. Metal clinked as she produced a pair of pliers and a small hammer. “We managed to send everyone home for the evening with extra bandages and salves. Then the kingsguard paid us a visit.”

I sat up straighter. “What for?”

“They wanted to speak to the boys who flew the kites in the first place.”

“Ah, yes.” I relaxed back against the chair. “That’ll likely be the last time they do something so foolish. It’s all fun and games until you actually rile up a herd.”

Eden smiled softly. “From what I heard, they’re spending the night with the kingsguard, standing watch for the Wretch.”

“A relatively harmless punishment, all things considered,” I said. “They’ll be tired come morning and cold⁠—”

Eden laughed under her breath, settling down in her desk chair. “In my opinion, a couple of them sounded a little too excited.”

“And the others?”

“Oh,” she said, smirking, “absolutely shaking in their boots.”

I chuckled. I shouldn’t be laughing, but with Eden sitting close, a grin on her face, I couldn’t help but be comforted. The crisis had been averted, after all. Min and I had managed to ensure no one was critically injured—that was as much as any wrangler could hope for. And the kids were only really looking for a bit of fun. “I hate to say it, but it’s the kind of thing my brother and I would have done as children.”

“I suppose we’ve all done something foolish at some point in our youth,” Eden mused.

“I can’t imagine you ever doing anything like that. You seem far too…”

“Too what?” she asked, one blond eyebrow arching.

“Sensible.”

She hummed. “I wasn’t always so sensible.”

Eden picked up another tool, tinkering with a hinge. I watched her work for a beat, her movements curious and gentle. Her hands were delicate but strong. I’d felt their sturdiness every time she had to bandage my hand. I wondered briefly what they would feel like elsewhere, her palms running over my shoulders, down my arms, lifting to cup my face.

Heat crawled up my neck, and I cleared my throat. “Can I ask you something?”

“I expect you will anyway,” she said, holding up a small bolt, her lips pursed.

“Why are you a burn nurse?” I studied the thoughtful shift in her expression. “You could have done anything with your life, and yet you decided to pursue a career that only exists because of the thing you fear most.”

Eden was quiet for a long moment. The only sound was the scratch of charcoal on parchment as she started sketching. “I guess, despite my fear of dragon fire, there’s nothing I’m better at in the world.”

Her words hit me hard. Eden woke up every morning, prepared to face her fears, simply because she was good at it.

“My mother used to say with talent like mine, I’d be wasted on anything else,” she continued. “Of course, that was before we lost my father. But the same was still true after.”

“Is your mother a burn nurse?”

“She never carried the title,” Eden explained, “because she was never formally trained. But yes. We spent so much time in rider camps with my father, tending burn injuries. I used to follow around after her while my father trained.” A fond expression crossed her face. “I loved it. Hiking my mother’s satchel of supplies over my shoulder as I marched around to visit patients. Crouching next to her as she opened jars and prepared poultices and salves. The smell of honey and lemon balm and aloe.”

“It sounds… nice,” I said.

“It was for a time,” she admitted. “And then… after the accident. Well, everything changed.”

“How do you mean?”

“The loss wore my mother away.” Eden held her sketch up to the light of a candle. She wouldn’t look at me as she spoke. “She was never one for the pub, but after the accident, that’s where I found her more often than not. Sometimes she tried to stop, but her hands would tremble so badly during the day. There were times she’d take me with her to make her rounds, and I’d wrap bandages that she was no longer steady enough to do herself. At the time, I thought I was so grown up, so special, getting to help. Now, looking back, I understand the way the grief ate at her.”