Page 9 of The Prison Healer

“Let me just get you some poppymilk, then you can—”

“No poppymilk.”

The two words from the young man were sharp enough to draw Kiva’s eyes back to his. She frowned and said, “I won’t give you much, just enough to help with the pain. It’ll soothe your head, and”—she waved, indicating the rest of his bruised, cut, and carved body—“everything else.”

“No poppymilk,” he repeated.

Hearing his unyielding tone, Kiva slowly said, “All right, how about some angeldust? I can—”

“No, absolutely not,” he said, his face having paled all over again. “I—I don’t want anything. I’m good. Thank you.”

Kiva studied him, noting the stiffness of his posture, his muscles straining as if preparing for flight. She wondered if something had happened to him under the influence of either remedy, or if perhaps he’d overdosed before. Maybe he knew someone who was addicted. Whatever the reason, short of forcing the drugs into him, she had little choice but to honor his wishes, even knowing it was to his detriment.

“Fine,” Kiva said. “But at least let me give you some pepperoot ash. It won’t take away all the pain, but it’ll help a little.” She paused, thinking. “If we combine that with some hashwillow to ease your nausea and some yellownut to give you an energy boost, then that might be enough to get you through ... what’s next.”

One golden eyebrow arched, but he didn’t question the end of her statement, nor did he argue her treatment options again. Instead, he gave a short nod, the color slowly returning to his face.

Kiva looked toward Tipp, and the young boy scampered off to collect the ingredients. Pepperoot ash worked well topically when dusted onto wounds, but it could also be ground into a paste and taken orally, targeting pain receptors in the whole body. Kiva had never mixed it with hashwillow and yellownut before, but the smell of the liquified combination had her wrinkling her nose and looking at the young man in question, certain that he’d prefer the nutty-flavored poppymilk or the caramelly angeldust, both of which went down considerably smoother.

In answer, he reached for the stone tumbler without a word, swallowing the concoction in one go.

Kiva noted Tipp’s full-faced grimace, and she struggled to keep her own features from copying him. The young man, however, gave only the slightest of shudders.

“That should, uh, kick in within a few minutes,” Kiva said, taken aback. She gestured to the gray tunic and pants that Tipp had placed at the end of the metal bench. “Those are for you.”

She busied herself by returning the empty tumbler to the workbench as the young man changed, leaving Tipp to help him. When she’d put all the ingredients back in their rightful places and could no longer act like she had something to do with her hands, she turned around to find the man dressed, with everyone watching her, waiting. Naari included.

Looking pointedly at the guard, Kiva said, “Isn’t this where you step in?”

She wasn’t sure what it was about this young man that was getting to her. All her self-preservation instincts were going haywire. She wouldneverhave talked to any guard so directly before today. She hadn’t lasted ten years in this place by being reckless.

Naari’s dark brows rose a fraction, as if she knew what Kiva was thinking—and agreed with her. But just as Kiva tried to figure out how to beg forgiveness and avoid punishment, the guard said, “I’m allocating him to you for orientation.”

Kiva jerked with surprise. She was never tasked with prisoner orientation. She’d done it once or twice back when she’d been in the workrooms, but never since undertaking her role as the prison healer.

“But ... what about ...” Kiva started, then tried again. “I have patients to see to.”

Naari’s brows rose even higher as she looked around the empty infirmary. “I think your patients”—she nodded to the two dead men—“can wait.”

Kiva had meant the prisoners who were quarantined, but Naari’s posture had tightened, so Kiva swallowed her reply. Orientation wouldn’t take long. She’d show the young man around Zalindov, find out which cell block he was assigned to, then leave him with his cellmates for the night. Tomorrow he’d be given a work allocation, and someone else would take over from there.

“Fine,” she said, wiping her hands—still stained with his blood—on a damp cloth. Once they were mostly clean, she moved toward the infirmary’s exit. “Follow me.”

Seeing Tipp step forward as well, Kiva cut off his advance by saying over her shoulder, “Can you go and tell Mot that we need a collection?” She dipped her chin toward the deceased men.

Tipp shuffled his feet and wouldn’t meet Kiva’s gaze. “Mot isn’t real h-happy with me right now.”

Kiva paused at the door. “Why?”

If anything, Tipp looked even more uncomfortable. He glanced from Kiva to Naari, then back again, and Kiva realized that it must be bad if Tipp was managing to keep a filter around the guard.

With a sigh, she said, “Never mind, I’ll do it myself. Can you check on the quarantined patients? Wear a mask, and don’t get too close.”

“I thought it was just t-t-tunnel fever?”

“Better safe than sorry,” Kiva warned, before stepping out the door, the young man following in her footsteps.

And ... Naari, too.

---