Page 4 of Sons of Sorrow
I sniffed. “Well, I did say that we had a meeting with Mr. Brittle today.”
“But you didn’t say you needed me at said meeting,” Satchel said, wagging his finger. This familiar was getting way too familiar with me.
“You’re right,” I said, crossing my arms. “I remember saying you had the day off for your sewing stuff. Which is why I’m now wondering why you’re bugging out about not being able to find me.”
“Oh, gods, that’s right.”
Satchel’s eyes flew wide open as he flew toward me. He gripped my cheeks with his hands. I leaned back in surprise, but his tiny face was pressed up against mine. What he said made my heart sink and my stomach churn.
“We should go to the Canopy, and soon. Namirah’s sick.”
2
I practically flew outof the library, racing toward the stone staircases that led all the way up to the Canopy. Good thing Satchel chased me in time to explain that Namirah was not, in fact, infected by the Withering, but something closer to the common cold.
“Very dramatic,” I told him, shaking my head disapprovingly. “Very unnecessary.”
Satchel scoffed. “You want dramatic? You should see Namirah.”
About ten or so minutes later, I saw what he meant for myself. In her treetop accommodations, Namirah was draped across a piece of furniture resembling a fainting couch. Bruna sat at her side, fussing with little bottles of medicine. In her lap sat a wooden bowl with a poultice in it, meant to bring down Namirah’s fever.
Her cabana was effortlessly cool, a rustic nook designed with plenty of natural materials. A wicker sofa set, beaded wall hangings, brightly colored carpets in loose weaves. Very chic, unlike Evander Skink’s tacky attempt at a treetop beach house, which didn’t even make any sense. On most other days, Namirah would be lounging on the hammock hanging between a tree and the outer wall of her house.
But today? Fainting couch, a fever, and plenty of melodramatic moaning. Namirah’s luxurious kaftan was a deeper green than even the leaves surrounding her home, the fabric flecked with sunny yellow accents. A matching turban kept her hair out of her face as she groaned at the ceiling.
“I’m dying,” Namirah croaked.
Bruna grunted as she held a damp towel against Namirah’s forehead. “You said that before the guys came up here, and you’re only repeating it now to win their sympathy.”
“No. I’m repeating it because I’m dying. You see how she treats me?”
Satchel stood on a nearby windowsill, crossing his arms as he leaned against the glass pane. He cocked an eyebrow at me, as if to say that he told me so. Sylvain pursed his lips and nodded in reassuring agreement with every outrageous statement that left Namirah’s mouth.
“So it’s just a cold, you think?” I asked, making sure Namirah wasn’t actually at risk of kicking the bucket before I said anything else.
“At worst it might be the flu,” Bruna said. She moistened her little towel, squeezed it out, and slapped it against Namirah’s forehead again. “Debbie Deathbed over here just needs some rest and plenty of fluids, is all.”
“I have no friends,” Namirah moaned. “With friends like you, who needs enemas?”
Satchel chuckled.
“Namirah,” I said, shuffling closer. “If you shift into another form, could you possibly pick up a disease that only infects that species? Say if you turned into a hawk. Could you — I don’t know — contract the bird flu?”
She looked up at me, eyes glazed, cheeks pale, and crooked a finger. “Come closer, Locke.”
I came closer, so close that I thought I could feel the fever blazing from her body.
Namirah whispered. “I may be sick, but I can still give you a good and proper hiding.”
“Pssh,” I said, but only when I’d pulled out of punching distance. “I’d like to see you try.”
She pointed two fingers at her eyes, then those same two fingers at my face.
“Very convenient of you to get sick when we were just about to explore the Oriel of Fire, too,” I said, smirking.
Bruna clucked her tongue. “Oh, I really wish you wouldn’t, Locke. The Oriel of Fire? Why?”
I held up my medallion, the gift from Hephaestus and Aphrodite, running my thumb over the last indentation. Well, two, if you counted the heart-shaped dip in the center, which the goddess insisted was a space reserved for her favor, whatever that meant.
