Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 59723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
I give him a wan smile and follow him into the richly scented apothecary.
Chiron is already there, pacing between shelves of dried herbs, cloak flicking at every turn. He stops sharply when he sees us and jerks a finger at the tables we use for lessons. “Finally. Sit.”
I slink onto a seat and stare at the desk.
Chiron clears his throat. “Why has the king requested you be transferred?”
Transferred.
My stomach feels heavy and I cradle it.
He doesn’t want to see me again.
Florentius says, confused and indignant, “To where?” Then, hopeful, “To the other—”
“You’re deluded if you think you can . . . This is not the time for that discussion.”
Florentius’s posture deflates beside mine.
Chiron stands in front of me, expectant. “What happened?”
My cheeks burn. The king could have me beheaded for that uncontrolled outburst. He’s only sending me away to another part of the royal city. He’s had enough of me.
My throat aches as I swallow. “It’s my fault. Nothing to do with Florentius.”
“You’re supposed to report directly if one of your spells fails.”
I open my mouth to tell him it wasn’t a spell that went wrong, but the truth will have more serious consequences. “A . . . hair growth spell went awry. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too. Your chances of becoming a medius-complex vitalian have decreased dramatically. I’ll have to take this into consideration at your examination. You are already struggling.” He sighs. “Have you given thought to dropping out?”
Florentius’s head swings my way; I can’t tell if he’s hopeful I will, or surprised his father suggested it.
“I say this,” Chiron says, “to protect you. Another mistake might have more serious consequences. Might cost you your medius vitalian status.” I squeeze my soldad, heart pounding. “Might cost you everything.”
Tight silence follows until Chiron breaks it with a pat on my shoulder. “Give me an answer by six tomorrow morning.
“For today,” he continues, “you’re both free unless the others need support. Use your time wisely. Florentius, I suggest you read up on transplantation theory. Get a head start.”
Chiron swishes from the room.
Florentius plucks a spellbook and returns to his desk. I laugh hollowly and drag my chair beside him. “No.”
He stiffens but doesn’t look up.
“You want friends, Florentius. I saw you during the last exam, staring wistfully at everyone. Ask me how I’m doing.”
He brushes my hand off his book. “I know better than to make friends here.”
“And yet,” I press, leaning in, “you’re still here, listening.”
He stiffens. Through his sleeve against mine, I feel the uptick of his pulse.
I say more softly, “I just want us to help one another out when we’re down.”
He turns his head slowly and tired eyes hit mine. “The friendliest thing I can tell you is to take the opportunity: give up and run.”
“If I don’t?”
“People don’t like different, and you’re different.” His voice thickens. He looks away. “It’s dangerous.”
“See, right there. Behind your hard, prettily polished shield, you’re concerned about me. You’ve got feelings.”
“And you have no shield. You let everyone know your thoughts at any moment.”
I haul a deep breath into my achy chest and let it wheeze out again. I force myself to smile. “You’re right. Your shield is quite large though; what about sharing it with me? I can be . . . your sword in return. If you ever need to provoke someone.”
He huffs a small laugh and smothers it hurriedly.
“Florentius?” I say, and his eyes stop tracking the lines of his book. “We’re going to become friends.”
I pluck a transfusion book from his pile and crack it open. He stares.
Not more than half an hour later, a harried-looking aklo stumbles into the apothecary alongside a redcloak, and Makarios and Mikros glide out of the adjacent room to greet them. “How may we be of help?”
“One of the royal guests has the headache.”
Makarios and Mikros incline their heads. “We can be of service.”
“He insists on a green sash attending him.”
“A green sash?”
“He’s a teacher. He wishes to provide opportunity for the less experienced.”
Mikros hesitates, his gaze shifting between Florentius and me. “Florentius, Caelus, you’ll go together.”
We follow—out of the apothecary, to a garden amphitheatre alive with activity. Semi-circular tiers frame the stage, and aklas are bustling about setting exquisite dishes on neatly arranged tables. The scent of roasted spices drifts on the breeze, mingling with the hum of conversation. The redcloak and aklo lead us to the middle section, where a private booth awaits behind a silk curtain. My breath catches as I spot a familiar figure—white hair gleaming under sunlight, and beside him, a whiter cat nestled in a basket.
My stomach hops. I almost trip as I scurry over.
Skriniaris Evander rises, his warm smile a longed-for comfort as he beckons me to join him. With a whisper, he sends his aklo and the redcloak away.
I sling myself onto a cushioned bench while Florentius stands beside the table. It takes three tugs at his sleeve to get him folding beside me. He bows his head at Skriniaris Evander. “We are here to dispel your headache.”