Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Inside, Quin’s fingers glow faintly as he works his magic, threads of light spinning into crude disguises.
“These should hold,” he murmurs, his voice steady though his hands tremble slightly. “Nicostratus can help us gain entry to Thinking Hall. He’s sending Petros to bring badges that grant foreign dignitaries passage.”
My stomach tightens at the thought of Nicostratus, and the masks Quin spoke of earlier feel heavier now.
True to his word, Petros arrives within the hour, his sharp gaze cutting through the apothecary’s dim interior. His eyes flick between Quin and me before settling, suspiciously, on the badges he carries.
“The prince has asked me to report back to him directly,” Petros warns, handing us the crested badges.
My stomach tightens. Report what back? The progress on finding an antidote? Or whether I’m foolishly standing too close to Quin again? I glance at Quin, whose unreadable expression—calm and commanding—betrays nothing.
I make a clean step away from him, and he nonchalantly closes the distance again. This time, I make an excuse to cross the room, and Quin sends Petros and Vitalian Dimos ahead.
When we’re alone, he leans against the leaded windows, cane propped into the corner beside him, and curls his finger for me to come.
The air is thick with dried herbs, the floral scent of our potions, and the dust from wooden shelves on the walls.
The air in my lungs is tight.
Milky sunlight filters through the glass around Quin, outlining him in a soft halo. Struggling to keep an innocent bounce in my step, I cross to him.
I halt a few feet away and drop my gaze. Quin’s fingers wrap around my wrist, his grip firm yet deliberate as he draws me closer. The air between us sharpens, and the space I thought was safe narrows until my foot touches his.
The touch of his hand lingers as he releases me, sending a shiver down my arm that I pray he doesn’t notice. He picks up the mask he carved—meticulously, I realise, the edges smooth against my skin as he tilts my chin upward. The wood fits perfectly along the bridge of my nose, and his hands linger as he ties the ribbons into place.
My breaths falter as his gaze remains steady on me, his voice dropping to something softer, closer. “We won’t wear these forever.”
Something swells in my chest, too overwhelming to name, and I pull back quickly, forcing a smile. “Do your part at the constabulary. I’ll head to Thinking Hall.”
It’ll be Vitalian Dimos who goes on stage. It’ll be him using magic to show our progress on the antidote, him leading the discussion on how to complete it.
I know this. Quin knows this.
Others might say I don’t need to be there. Why must I take the risk? He knows I must. He understands it calls inside me, to see the sick healed. That I am deeply emotionally invested. For the sake of the refugees.
For the sake of my dream.
I ball my hands still.
Quin notices. Of course, he notices. “What is it?”
I throw out a laugh that hurts and quickly turn away from him. “I’m frustrated I can’t have what I want.”
“What’s that?” he asks quietly after me.
I pause and, at the familiar—almost comforting—sound of his cane, hurry out, away. “Magic.”
Like the Thinking Hall in the capital, the one in Hinsard heaves with the weight of stone and knowledge. The air tastes like parchment and ink, and the vaulted ceiling way, way above feels like a pinnacle of learning that is both unreachable, and aspired to by all who enter.
I feel small in here, of pitiable wisdom, yet eager to drink in more. Voices of debating scholars vibrate through my mask, a heady feeling. I slip to a lone wooden bench at the perimeter.
A figure crosses my path and seats himself next me by the adjacent wall. He’s wearing a sweet and musky perfume that has my senses sharpening.
I look at him—the man who’s also tucked himself in the corner. There are a few signs that, despite wearing local fabrics, he’s not from here. There’s his supernaturally beautiful face, and his brilliantly blonde hair—a shade lighter than my own—and while he’s not wearing adornments, his right ear is pierced in three places where he might.
His gaze slices to me and his lip curls, unimpressed at my brazen staring. I jerk my eyes away slightly and shuffle over the bench in his direction, whispering under my tongue, “You must be from the south . . . Iskaldir?”
“For someone wearing a mask, I’d have thought you’d understand a man’s desire not to be recognised.”
“Forgive me,” I say with an apologetic grin that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “When I saw you, I thought you might be a healer. Someone who could teach me . . .” Someone who could teach me to heal without magic. Someone who could show me a path . . . where Quin isn’t.