Page 126 of Kingmakers, Year Two

“Guess you’ll miss watching the challenge,” Hedeon says.

“I’ll support you in spirit from here,” I say, nodding toward the long, low building of the infirmary.

“You want me to come in?” Hedeon asks.

“No,” I say. “Thank you, though. For the napkin and the arm.”

I let go of his warm, substantial bicep.

Hedeon squints down at me like he wants to say something else. Instead, he jerks his head in a surlyyou’re welcome,and heads back toward the dining hall.

Dr. Cross opens the door after one knock.

“The challenge hasn’t even started yet!” He squawks in outrage. “How are you injured already?”

“I cut myself at breakfast,” I say, pulling back the blood-soaked napkin to show him the damage.

“Cut yourself with what? A saber?” He howls.

“The knives are sharp.”

“And the students are idiots, apparently.”

“That can’t be a surprise to you,” I say, giving him a disarming smile. “How long have you worked here?”

“Since before you were born, and probably your parents, too,” Dr. Cross says, rolling his eyes behind his thick glasses. “Well, it’s not so bad. I can stitch you up. You might have a scar, but better on your arm than on your face.”

He washes his hands at the steel sink, then begins to bustle around, gathering up his supplies.

“Sit on the bed before you fall over,” he barks.

“I am a little dizzy,” I admit. “I didn’t get a chance to eat my breakfast. You don’t think I could have some tea, maybe?”

“This isn’t the Four Seasons!” Dr. Cross barks. But a moment later he softens, saying, “I’ll start the tea and you can drink it once I’ve stitched you up. Keep pressure on the wound while I’m gone.”

He heads back to his apartment to fetch the kettle and cups. I hear him banging around in his little kitchen, and I take the opportunity to retrieve a pair of capsules from my pocket. I made them myself, with a carefully measured dose. One should do it, but I plan to use both just to be sure.

Dr. Cross returns several minutes later bearing a teapot and two mugs. The mugs are chipped and unmatching, but the tea already smells lovely.

“I don’t have cream,” he says, gruffly.

“I like it plain,” I say.

“Let it steep a minute,” he barks, though I hadn’t tried to touch it.

Dr. Cross fills a syringe with lidocaine and injects my arm in several places. The whole arm is so hot and throbbing that I barely feel the needle poking at the edges of the wounded flesh.

“We’ll give that a minute to settle in,” he says. “You can pour the tea now.”

I lift the pot with my uninjured arm, and pour two careful mug-fulls.

“Forgot the sugar,” Dr. Cross grouses, heading back to his kitchen.

I drop both capsules into his mug. The clear coating instantly dissolves in the hot tea, leaving only a fine white powder at the bottom of the mug that he shouldn’t notice unless he looks carefully. I desperately hope I’ve dosed it right—I really don’t want to hurt the doctor.

I lift the other mug, sipping the tea even though it’s scalding.

“It’s so good!” I say to Dr. Cross as he returns.

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