Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73154 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73154 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
“Bit of everything.” His lips flatten in disappointment. “But I’m not nearly as powerful as I’d like.”
I pat his arm; he’s squeezing the life out of the bench under him. Maybe I could bring Quin to Prince Nicostratus’s attention? Could he put in a good word with the king? “What’s your family name?”
Aklo’s voice cuts into the carriage suddenly and we slow to a halt. “The entrance procession for palace aklas ahead. It’ll be slow going.”
I peek past the curtain and out the lattice window. Neat rows of women holding lanterns, dressed in the violet skirts of the palace with their hair in neat, uniform buns. No other adornment but the pretty lights are all unique, to be set along the canal as they enter the palace.
The woman in the front, she looks like . . .
The first lines turn a corner, out of sight.
I shake my head. What would Megaera be doing entering the palace as an akla?
When my focus returns to Quin, he’s watching me. “Where were we?”
He murmurs, “The decree. Was it a good idea?”
I close my eyes and this time my smile is soft. “Could not have been better.”
Quin is oddly quiet, and I have the strange sensation he’s watching me again.
I snap my eyes open, and he is. “Do you think it’s a bad idea?”
“Not at all. Only . . .” He stares solidly in my eye. “It’s an upward battle, being par-linea.”
“Par-linea have always had battles. I don’t want to have them, but I must.”
“Have you ever considered other ways to heal?”
“When I can form spells? Isn’t that being irresponsible?”
“Perhaps good can come from being proficient in crude skills?”
Like saving a life when my meridians are sealed. Or when a patient has allergies. “Put aside the fact it’s looked down on—that there’s no way, officially, to educate oneself in those skills. Crude healing is inferior. There’s less guarantee of success. I don’t know I could live with that feeling of uselessness; that uncertainty; that guilt someone may more easily die under my hands.” I shake my head. “I can only be a vitalian. I must be a vitalian.”
After a prolonged stare, like he’s measuring my resolve, he inclines his head. “This is your life’s passion. Burn brightly.”
I squint suspiciously. He seems both encouraging and cautious. It makes something hitch in my stomach. I suppress it. I will be a vitalian.
“Oh”—I fish in my robes and pull out the vial—“I have something for you.”
Quin takes it, slowly inspecting the glass.
“For saving me,” I add.
“You saved me also.”
I wave a dismissive hand. “You can thank me another time.”
Quin glances towards the front of the carriage, his expression flickering between exasperation, disbelief and faint amusement. He clears his throat, and when he looks at me again, there’s a hint of a smile in his eyes. “Is that really necessary?” he murmurs, and . . . his words land more softly than usual. “I’d say our debt is already settled.”
“My gratitude was a touch lacklustre on the day.”
“A touch?”
I scowl at him. “I can be grateful.” In a low mutter, “No matter my feelings on the recipient.”
Quin barks out a short laugh and swirls the dark bottle. “What is it?”
“Mood-altering spores, personally distilled for—”
Dark eyes become darker. Any hint of curled lips disappears, leaving behind a blank expression that makes me shiver.
I look from him to the bottle and back again. My stomach rises and falls on an abrupt . . . thought. “It’s not for you, you!”
One brow rises steadily, awaiting explanation.
“For your academy. This is a treasure among dance houses. Not easy to obtain.” Can I sweat any more than this? “Are you not familiar with it?”
“All too familiar.” A shadow crosses his face. “I’ve since banned it at my academy.”
Blood drains from my face and in my panic, I blabber, “This is not potent. One squirt into the air for mild . . . arousal.”
Quin slams his eyes shut.
Silence thickens around us; I eye the door, contemplating diving out it. What . . . had I been thinking?
I give a weak, regretful chuckle and reach for the bottle.
Quin shifts it away. “It is, after all, a gift.”
I try to snatch it back.
Left, right, up, down, an expressionless Quin holds it just out of reach.
I lunge for the vial, but Quin shifts it again, a smirk in his eyes deepening with each failed attempt. The carriage jolts, and I fall against him, my palm landing firmly on his chest. His breath hitches, just a little, but enough to send heat rushing to my face. “Falling hard, Cael?”
My fingers glance off the bottom of the bottle—
It tilts and tumbles, and—
Smashes on the wooden floor between our feet.
My eyes widen and I slam my palm over Quin’s nose and mouth, apologising profusely. I won’t let him take so much as a whiff. With one hand, I free a handkerchief. Quin’s tight demands are muffled into oblivion by my hand. I even ignore the nip of his teeth against my palm, and yell for Aklo to halt.