Page 65 of A Game of Veils

Wasn’t he considering leaving me for dead? I’d laugh if I remembered how.

My incredulity must show all the same. Bastien’s mouth tightens. “If you die, it’ll be because you failed one of these stupid trials or pissed off Marclinus, not because of me. I’m not standing by when you’re this ill. What else do you need?”

I wonder if he even notices he said “if” I die. He seemed awfully certain of that outcome the first time we spoke.

Regardless, I only seem capable of producing one answer, effective even with my voice little more than a creak. “Fuck off.”

Raul lets out a strangled sort of guffaw.

As I go back to my grinding, a hand rests gingerly against my back.

I can tell it’s Lorenzo without needing to look. That’s the only reason I don’t shrug off the steadying touch.

He hasn’t said anything horrible to me in the past half an hour. Of course, he can’t say anything at all, but some mildly coherent part of me would like to believe he wouldn’t have after our conversation in the woods.

My work is almost done anyway. I light the pot of oil under the tiny stove and set my miniature cauldron over the flame. In goes the hot water steeped with thyme, then the crushed mixture from the pestle, then a few drips of silvery oil from the vial.

Unpeeling the garlic nearly proves my undoing. My trembling fingers jitter across the papery skin.

Lorenzo’s hand firms against my back.

If he’s thinking of intervening, Raul beats him to the punch. The massive prince leans in to snatch the garlic from my hands.

Both Lorenzo and I make noises of protest, his more forceful than my weak grunt.

Raul glowers at both of us. “You’re not dying over a fucking piece of garlic.”

He tears the skin off both the bulb and one of the cloves. I stretch out a wobbly arm. “Enough.”

He hands the clove over. Ideally I’d cut it up, but I don’t have the coordination for that right now. Instead, I dig my fingernails into the smooth surface to pierce it and toss it into the bubbling concoction.

The mixture has turned into a thick gray sludge. Hardly the most appetizing substance I’ve seen in my life, but my gift tickles through me like a balm, confirming I’ve done everything needed.

I let the potion simmer as long as I dare, closing my eyes against the impression of spikes driving through my skull and joints. Then I spoon a few dollops of the stuff into a little bowl.

I blow a ragged breath over the concoction to cool it. As I bring it to my lips, the princes remain braced around me, though what they think they’re going to contribute at this point, I can’t fathom.

The sludgy substance coats my tongue with a sour and slightly metallic flavor. Wincing, I swallow once, wait to make sure my stomach doesn’t immediately expel the stuff, and gulp the rest.

The furious determination that gripped me dissipates. I lean over on my side and let myself sag onto the floor.

The carpet is comfortably soft when I’m embracing it purposefully rather than collapsing onto it.

Lorenzo reaches over to squeeze my hand. I find myself squeezing back, even though I have no idea what he’s thinking right now.

“Aurelia?” Bastien says tentatively.

I hold myself still and quiet. Gradually, the ache jabbing through every part of my body starts to fade. The fire searing through my veins dwindles.

Raul touches my cheek. “She’s less hot already.” There’s a hint of a question in his voice.

Bastien answers it firmly. “We stay until we’re sure she’s fully well.”

Fine. It’s not as if they’d leave just because I told them to anyway.

My eyelids slide shut, and my mind drifts into a healing sleep.

Chapter Twenty-One

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