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“I understand,” she says. “I am coming back.”

Her warmth touches my skin. I cannot return the pressure.

The connection begins to collapse.

Fiona’s presence recedes first, though she remains beside me. The thread of her determination fades beyond reach. My chaos magic sinks beneath the numiscu, leaving no sparks near my hand and no path into the bond.

I search for her once more.

There is nothing.

The loss produces a flash of panic more severe than paralysis. I cannot sense whether she understands. I cannot send another warning about heat. I cannot follow her through the keep.

I cannot blink again.

I cannot offer reassurance.

I hold her gaze with the only control that remains.

Then Fiona leaves to prepare the remedy, and I surrender my life to her hands.

27

FIONA

The solarium door strikes the wall when I push through it.

Cold air follows me inside. It bends the herb stalks nearest the entrance and sends loose labels skittering across the floor. I let the door remain open. Tonight, warmth is another enemy.

Rhysandir lies two corridors away, unable to move, while the numiscu works through his blood. The thought tries to drag me back toward his chambers before I have anything capable of helping him.

I refuse it.

He needs a healer, not a frightened wife hovering beside the chaise.

I set the covered bowl on the worktable and clear a space with one sweep of my arm. Seed packets, drying screens, and a bundle of rirzed slide toward the far edge. My hands move faster than good order permits. I force myself to stop and arrange what I need where I can reach it.

Fresh fylvek. A stone mortar. Two clean knives. Cold water. Measuring spoons. Linen for straining. The unopened rirzed I raised beneath this glass rather than anything bought in Lowtown.

And proof.

The bundle from the compromised stall lies inside a sealed wooden tray Joran sent ahead under guard. The fresh salve jar remains in Rhysandir’s chambers, watched by two Morwen’thir soldiers who have orders to touch nothing. Another guard stands outside the solarium with the empty herb wrapping collected from my workroom.

I break the tray’s wax seal.

Blue flowers rest inside. Under ordinary light, the substituted numiscu looks enough like rirzed to pass through a market inspection. The petals share the same narrow shape and deep blue center. Pale dust softens both stems. Even their dried leaves curl in similar patterns.

I place one bought sprig beside rirzed cut from my own plants.

The differences are slight. My rirzed carries a gray cast along the stem where mineral-rich soil feeds it. The bought stem appears smooth beneath its powdering. I scrape both with the tip of my knife. The rirzed releases a clean green stain. The other plant leaves a gleaming film across the blade.

Oily sap.

Numiscu.

I crush one petal from each plant on separate white tiles. The rirzed darkens to blue-gray and releases its faint stone scent. The substituted flower turns almost black at its torn edges. Oil beads across the tile, too little to notice against a darker surface.

The contamination is no accident. Someone chose blossoms mature enough to carry concentrated sap, dusted the stems to mimic rirzed, and mixed them through harmless leaves. The visual deception brought the poison into my stores. The stronger scent of fylvek concealed it inside the salve.