Page 48 of The Kingdom Cursed By Iron

“We should get you to a healer,” he says. “That, at least, I will hear no argument about.”

“Take her,” Evanthe says. “I shall summon the guards to deal with these.” She nods at the kneeling fae. Her son hesitates, and I can see he is torn between his urge to protect me and to watch out for his mother. His unease is so normal, so human, that I have the sudden desire to reach out to him.

“Are you sure?” he asks Evanthe.

“A woman lies dead at your feet, and you’re concerned I can’t handle myself?” she replies, looking a touch amused at her son’s doubt.

He concedes by placing a gentle hand at my shoulder, guiding me forward.

I move slowly, trying to avoid jostling the broken bones that sting every time I take a breath. As we turn out of the corridor, I can feel his eyes on me.

“I suspect you are too stubborn to say yes,” he murmurs, “but if you would allow me to carry you?—”

“The key is not to move the point of fracture any more than necessary,” I say. “Bouncing up and down in your arms isn’t going to help.”

“I’m insulted. Of course I could hold you steady.”

I sweep a look at Ruskin’s toned arms, the extraordinary grace with which he walks. Every movement is precise and perfectly considered. He’s probably right, but I can’t be that close to him, exactly because of how easy it would be, how right it would feel.

I’ve not been to the healers’ quarters before, having only met the green-uniformed men and women out at the site of crisis or injury. The rooms are decorated more simply than the rest of the palace, and the atmosphere is calm, with herbs dotted around that leave the place smelling of fresh mint, and lemon trees growing in the corners. There’s a shelf with a few glass bottles on it that reminds me of my mother’s healers kit, though it’s hardly groaning with ingredients like hers. I remind myself that these healers use magic much more than herbs to cure their patients.

The female healer comes out of a side room to greet us, curtseying when she sees Ruskin, and she nods at me.

“How can I help, Your Majesty?”

“Miss Thorn here has been attacked. She’s in significant pain. You must do everything you can to fix her injuries.”

“It’s not so bad,” I say, thinking that Ruskin makes it sound more dramatic than it is. “Just a few cracked ribs and a bruised throat, I think. Also, they did something to my eyes,” I blink, realizing they still feel sore after Vanis’s spell.

“Please, take a seat.” She gestures to a raised chaise draped with a white cloth. I obediently perch on it, conscious of Ruskin’s careful watch over the whole thing.

“I’m Eleanor, by the way,” I say, as the healer feels her fingers along my side. “We keep running into each other, so I figured I should probably introduce myself.”

“I’m Atlana Elmsweb.” She smiles at me, and I think that she has the perfect face for a healer—gentle and soothing.

“Lady Elmsweb?” I ask to clarify. All the High Fae tend to be nobles, and I’d hate to offend her by getting the title wrong.

“No, just Atlana, or Healer Elmsweb, if you prefer. We renounce all other titles when we take the healer’s oath,” she says.

“You have one of those too?” I say with surprise. It seems medicine women like Mom and these fae healers have more in common than I thought.

“We do,” she says, pausing when she presses on the tender part of my side, and I stiffen.

“Do you mind?” she asks, laying her hand flat on the point and looking at me expectantly.

“Er, sure.”

She closes her eyes and begins to work her magic. I wasn’t conscious the last time they worked on me and I realize I’m holding my breath, anticipating something dramatic.

The point where her hand presses grows warm, and a tingling sensation sinks beneath the surface of my skin. It’s actually quite nice at first, but when it reaches my ribs, it becomes distinctly less pleasant. There’s a spike of pain as—I guess—the bones are shifted back into their proper places. I don’t know if it’s my imagination, but it’s like I can feel the ends grinding against each other, then a dull ache that makes me think they’d being knitted back together now that they’re aligned.

Atlana opens her eyes.

“Now we’ll look at your throat.”

“That’s it?” I ask, stunned.

“The breaks were not big,” she says. Then her brow furrows. “You’re not still in a lot of pain, are you?”

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