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Wendeline’s lips press together, and I can almost hear the words on the tip of her tongue: that it would be a poetic end, given what I’m accused of.
Despite the short stay and the lack of conversation, I’ve grown fond of the caster who tends to my injuries. She has a calm and nurturing presence that puts me at ease. Most important, if she wishes me dead, she hides it well. I look forward to her daily visits.
So many questions threaten to spill out, as they do every time I see her. Was she born with her power or is magic taught? How does it work? Who else has it? What can she do? But I hold my tongue firmly between my teeth. The king’s order won’t allow her to answer, but I fear my overwhelming curiosity and my ignorance will somehow reveal that I am an imposter in this world.
“How are your wounds today?” she asks.
“The same. I think.” Raw and red and sore. Though they have healed greatly, there hasn’t been any noticeable improvement since last week. Ignoring my food tray, though my stomach grumbles, I wander over to sit in my customary chair. It’s positioned by the glass doors where Wendeline insists the light is best.
“It is warm in here,” she murmurs, setting her jar on a nearby table.
“If only doors and windows were designed to open.” My voice drips with sarcasm as I unfasten the tie at the front of my nightgown and push one side off, my modesty around her long gone.
A small smile of amusement touches her lips. “Perhaps your request will be accommodated.”
“She’s not even going to ask.”
“The king requires that we report any requests you make, and Corrin is not foolish enough to withhold things from him out of spite.”
“He wants to know what I ask for? Why?” So he can get satisfaction from not giving it to me?
“He is the king. He does not explain himself to anyone. But you and whatever plans you’ve made to steal his throne remain especially important to him.”
So much for him not affording me any more thought. “But I’ve already failed at that, haven’t I?”
Wendeline pushes my hair to one side and checks the two faint silver dots across my jugular. “Perhaps he worries that you will somehow send messages to your supporters who remain in hiding if, for example, you were to request for paper and graphite.”
“I did ask for those, but it wasto draw.” I could entertain myself for hours if I could sketch faces and landscapes. It would make these monotonous days go by faster.
Her prodding touch is as gentle as always. “His Highness is in a precarious position. Someone in his household helped you plot against his family. His own sister released you. He does not fully trust anyone at the moment.”
“He trusts you.”
Her eyes flash to mine. “Enough to heal you, and no more.”
And Corrin, enough to not lace my food with arsenic or whatever they use around here to poison people. And the night guard, to not slit my throat while I sleep. “So, you would tell him if I asked for anything?”
“I’ve sworn fealty to him. I have no wish to earn his wrath.” Her mouth curls with a frown of satisfaction. “Your neck has mended well. The scars are almost invisible. One more session and they should be gone.”
That, at least, is good news, but my thoughts are still hung up on Zander. He said he wanted nothing more to do with me—didn’t want to see me or think about me—that day he came to inform me personally of my punishment, and yet he’s getting daily updates? I’ll bet he’s hoping to catch me in a lie. Though, if that were the case, it’d be smarter to let me build relationships. Nothing loosens lips faster than a sense of comfort. “What have you told him about me so far?”
“The truth. That the wounds on your shoulder are tricky to heal and that you’ve given no indication that you remember who you are or what you’ve done.” She studies the claw marks. “I’m going to try something different. It might help with these. If not … I’m not sure what more I can do.” She takes a seat in a chair next to me, and opening the jar, she sets to smearing the paste over the unsightly gashes.
I inhale, expecting the mild, floral fragrance of the usual salve. Instead, my nostrils fill with a putrid stink. “Oh my … what is that?” I turn away and gag. The only thing worse smelling would be the daaknar itself.
The corners of her eyes crinkle with her chuckle. “A great many things you would rather not know about, but most important is the haldi. A shipment of it arrived at the port the other day. I was able to secure this salve from the apothecary before it was gone, which was no small miracle.”
I focus on breathing through my mouth while her fingertips stroke gently over my wounds. The only hint that the stench affects her is a slight flare of her nostrils. All the while my mind gathers her words. She said port, which means ships. Ships from where? Regardless, it means there’s a way out of Islor, if I ever manage to escape.
Wendeline is far chattier today than she ever has been before. I press my luck. “Do you think he’ll ever let me out of these rooms?”
It’s a moment before she answers, and she is choosing her words carefully. “As of this moment, few people know for certain that you are still alive. There are whispers, of course. Questions of where your body may be and how you died. Plenty of rumors and speculation. The king has not officially confirmed or denied any of them, leaving both Islor and Ybaris in turmoil regarding the fate of Princess Romeria.”
“Why hasn’t he told them?”
“He has his motives,” she answers cryptically. “There would need to be a purpose for allowing you to leave these rooms, and a reason why the kingdom would be better served with the knowledge that you are alive rather than dead. It could happen. With time, he may grant you freedom to roam the castle, with an escort.”
“And outside?”
