Page 34 of Kingmakers, Year Two

He holds up his bandaged left arm awkwardly, as if it’s been turned to wood.

“It’s quite possible to become ambidextrous with practice,” Dr. Cross says unsympathetically. “Now get out.”

The kid scoots off the bed, scowling.

“What’s going on here?” Dr. Cross frowns, peering at Zoe with her bloodied face and torn shirt.

I took off my sweater vest and covered her up as best I could, but it’s still obvious that the blouse beneath has been slashed to ribbons.

“She fell on the ramparts,” I tell him. “I think she hit her head.”

I’m not about to tell Dr. Cross what really happened. It’s up to Zoe if she wants to make a formal complaint to the Chancellor.

In response to the rigid rules of Kingmakers, the students keep a code of silence. We don’t rat each other out except in the most extreme circumstances.

Dr. Cross glares at me suspiciously. Doubtless he’s heard a thousand excuses from injured students. Mine is especially weak.

“Lay her down here.” He points to a fresh bed. “You can leave her with me.”

That’s what I’d planned to do. I was going to drop her off and get back to the library. But as I carefully set Zoe down on the narrow mattress and lay her head on the pillow, I find myself not wanting to abandon her so quickly.

“I don’t think she should be alone.”

“She’s not alone,” Dr. Cross regards me from under shaggy gray brows as thick as caterpillars.

“No offense, Doc,” I say, giving him a wink, “But would you want to wake up to yourself? I think she should see a friendly face.”

Dr. Cross snorts.

“Keep out of the way, and you can stay,” he says, re-washing his gnarled hands at the sink.

With surprising gentleness, he washes the blood off Zoe’s face and examines the cut next to her eye.

“Puncture wound,” he mutters, as if to himself. “Clean, at least.”

Apparently deciding it doesn’t require stitches, he disinfects the cut, then covers it with surgical tape.

He carefully feels her skull all over, as if he’s a phrenologist. Finding a lump above her right ear, he checks her pupils for signs of concussion.

By this point, Zoe is coming around. She still looks dazed, but she doesn’t cry or try to speak. She lays quiet until Dr. Cross is satisfied.

“Here.” He takes a bottle of apple juice out of the fridge, and handing it to me along with a straw. “Give her this if she wants it.” Then to Zoe he says, “Is this delinquent a friend of yours?”

Zoe turns her gaze on me, still hazy and unfocused. After a long moment, she nods.

“You can stay for ten minutes,” Dr. Cross tells me. “Then get out of here so she can take a nap.”

He shuffles back to his apartment, closing the door behind him.

I sit next to Zoe’s bed, feeling awkward and out of place. We’ve never been alone together under normal circumstances, let alone in a moment like this.

I’m not even sure why I stayed. To check in with her? To comfort her? Both ideas seem ridiculous.

Zoe watches me silently. The sharpness has come back to her stare. She has green eyes, unusual for someone with such black hair. She has a lot of unusual features. Eyebrows and lashes so dark that they looked painted in ink. A straight, imperious nose, like an empress. A wide, full mouth. There’s an elegance to her face that makes her look older than her age, but also timeless and eternal.

“You don’t have to stay,” she says.

Her voice is clear and steady. No quivering, no sobs.

---