Page 51 of The Enemy's Daughter

But the same can’t be said for my people. Which is why I must use this window, this conduit between us, as a weapon. Somehow. No one else has access to him like I do.

Tristan gestures for me to take the stairs first. Downstairs, a few people recline on the couches—Samuel, Vador, and one of the women guards, the one with short black hair I’ve heard someone call Sarah. I think she’s the one who threw her knife at my lower back just before I was struck with the poisoned arrow. Perhaps I should be upset at being around her, but mostly I feel a begrudging respect. It’s impressive that she’s good enough to be an elite soldier. She’s smiling as she converses with the men, an arm draped over the couch and a drink clutched in her other hand. Yet another woman not enslaved.

Sick of trying to puzzle out how Kingsland’s evil underbelly works, I decide to simply ask. “Where do you keep your slaves?”

“What?” Tristan asks, startled.

“You know, slaves. Well, maybe notyourslaves. But where arethe women who do the grunt labor against their will? I know you have them.”

He looks at me in disbelief. “We don’t have them. Nobody here is a slave.”

Vador gives a polite nod as we pass, but I’m too confused to return it. Not only do I sense that Tristan is being genuine, but I can’t argue that I’ve seen anything contrary. Even now women’s voices carry from all over the house, including the war room.

“You’re walking better,” Tristan says as we near the empty kitchen.

My gaze drops to my bare feet. Fatigue and pain still linger with every step, especially after falling from the horse, but they don’t demand my attention like before. My breathing isn’t embarrassingly loud either, though it’s far from normal. “Yes, I suppose I am. The tea is working.”

“Sorry to interrupt,” a man says from behind us, not sounding sorry at all.

“Dr. Henshaw,” Tristan says.

A doctor? How do they have a doctor? I eye the balding man who I’d guess to be around the same age as my father.

“I need to be headed home since it’s getting late. You said you wanted to speak?”

His voice is familiar.

A spark of Tristan’s excitement fizzes in my veins as he gives me a conspiratorial look. “Yes, I was hoping to introduce Isadora to you. Properly. And ask you for a favor.”

Henshaw shifts his attention to me. “You’re looking better than the day you arrived.”

Though his words are kind, his face is not. His voice suddenlyclicks into place. I flash back to the day I thought I was going to die, when Tristan asked him how long I had left.

It’s difficult to say. Minutes. Hours. Maybe a day or two if she’s lucky.

Some doctor he is. He left me to die. “Yes, I am better,” I say. “It’s amazing what happens when you actually treat the poison.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. “You were beyond saving. None of our limited, outdated medicines would have helped, which is why Tristan resorted to the connection to save your life. But even if you hadn’t been beyond saving, I’d still have had nothing to offer you. I’m a surgeon. They didn’t cover plant poisoning in my training. Now, if you’d been bleeding to death, that would have been a different story.”

I suppose that makes sense. “Who taught you to be a surgeon?” Is it like the mentorship programs Vador mentioned at the funeral? I can’t imagine they have an actual academy for physicians.

Irritation flares in his eyes. “I received my training before the bombs.”

“Right.” I keep forgetting that older people would have had different lives and opportunities only a generation ago.

Henshaw turns back to Tristan. “Was there anything else?”

“Yes,” Tristan says with a grin. “I was hoping you would allow Isadora to shadow you when you see some of your patients—when she’s feeling better, of course. She’s a healer, and I think she’d be interested in seeing our hospital.”

My eyes go wide at Tristan. “I’m better now.” I don’t care if I have to drag a chair behind me to sit everywhere he goes. Acquiring any information on how to practice old-world medicine could be life-changing for the clans. “Could we do it tomorrow?”

Henshaw’s gaze turns assessing. “How are you with blood?”

“I’ve seen my share.”

His chin juts out, the remnants of a sneer on his face. “I bet you have.” He sighs. “I don’t know, Tristan. I’ll need to think on it.” Then he spins on his heel and leaves.

My face falls as I allow myself a second of sadness at being loathed by every person I meet. It really is exhausting.

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