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“The squall will worsen by evening.”

“I need more time.”

“You have two hours.”

“Who tends the clinic?”

“You may select a replacement.”

“There is no replacement.”

“Then choose the most capable available person.”

“Healing is not household laundry. A willing pair of hands cannot replace training.”

“The king’s edict does not alter itself to accommodate your schedule.”

“It would if a dark elf physician were being removed.”

Sarveth returns the contract to its case. “Two hours, Mistress Holt.”

She leaves the clinic.

Noise does not resume outside until her carriage door closes.

I stand alone beside the worktable.

Two hours to abandon the rooms where I learned my mother’s remedies. Two hours to decide who receives my patients, supplies, and the responsibility that has ordered every day of my adult life.

I begin writing instructions.

Bran enters without knocking fifteen minutes later. Snow covers his shoulders, and the repaired well has left fresh water stains across his gloves.

“Why are there Morwen’thir guards outside your clinic?”

I keep writing.

“Fiona.”

“Lord Morwen’thir is taking a wife.”

“Poor woman.”

“I am the woman.”

His face loses all humor.

“No.”

“I accepted.”

“Then unaccept.”

“The stronghold is releasing three months of grain, firewood, and medical supplies.”

“In exchange for you.”

“Yes.”