Her words send a shock through me. The option of letting him die had yet to cross my mind, but now that I’m forced to consider it…would it be better if I simply did nothing? I look over at Aspen, watching the tendrils of black crawling over his torso. If I leave him be, the iron will poison his blood. He’ll be dead before long.
I could let it happen. He did let my sister die, after all. And he may have been directly responsible for her death in the first place, not to mention the deaths of the Holstrom girls and who knows who else.
He deserves to die.
The thought makes my stomach churn. That’s not how I was trained. Mr. Meeks taught me that a surgeon treats anyone, regardless of station or history. Some surgeons are even sent to treat convicted criminals sentenced to hang.
I may never become the medical professional I wanted to be, but that doesn’t mean I’ll stop being the apprentice I was trained to be.
My heart rate begins to slow, breaths growing deeper. I return to Aspen’s side, meet Gildmar’s eyes. “Hand me that shard of seashell, then fetch me strands of spider silk and a splinter-thin bone. And where in the blazing iron is that wine?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Cobalt brings the wine. I remove the poultice and pour the deep red liquid over the wound. Gildmar uses a dropper—much like the ones my mother uses for her tinctures—and drips honey pyrus extract into Aspen’s lips, explaining it will help manage the pain. I wish we had laudanum, but the extract seems to work nearly as well. The king’s body goes limp and his moaning ceases. Then, with deft fingers, I take the sharpest shard of seashell and make the incision, widening the opening on either side of the arrow shaft.
I ignore the blood that pours forth, ignore how much blacker it is than red. When I finally see the head of the arrow, I understand the problem. Its head is edged with four barbs. Removing it isn’t simply a matter of turning the arrow to let it escape between two ribs. I’ll need to twist it, angle it, pull it to the side. All without puncturing his internal organs.
For one moment, I freeze, unsure how to proceed. Gildmar has no forceps, no tweezers. I will have to use my hands through all of this. Without a second thought, I pour wine over my hands to clean them and reach inside the cut.
Time slows. I close my eyes, forgetting how far off protocol I’ve gotten, ignore the feeling of Aspen’s blood and tissues on my skin. A calm certainty floods through me, and I follow it, find the tip of the arrow. I slide it to the side and Aspen groans.
“More honey pyrus,” I say to Gildmar.
She moves to obey, and I shift the arrowhead again. One of the barbs is free. Then another. I rotate it slightly, turn it to the side.
Free.
The arrow comes away, and I toss it to the floor, knowing none of the fae can take it from me. I cleanse the wound again, check for internal damage. It’s hard to tell considering everything is discolored with the tendrils of black, but he appears without further injury. I call for spider silk and bone, which Gildmar hands me. As quickly and as neatly as I can with the makeshift tools, I stitch him back together.
I tie the last stitch, then step back. Time seems to shift back to normal, and I release a heavy sigh. Only now do I realize the sweat on my brow and back of my neck. Only now does it dawn on me what I did.
I performed a surgery without normal tools. Unguided. And mostly with my hands.
I’m not sure whether I should be proud or horrified. More than anything, I’m exhausted. The surgery took mere minutes, but every part of me was in the task, focused like never before. Now I can feel the energy draining from me.
“You did it,” Lorelei says, coming to my side.
Foxglove gives me an appreciative nod. “You saved the king.”
“That you did,” Gildmar says from the other side of the table. “Something not even I could do. If you hadn’t been here…well, I suppose Cobalt would have had me executed for being the death of his brother.”
“I wouldn’t do that, Gildmar,” Cobalt says.
“Well, you should,” she says. “Luckily, you don’t have to. Apparently, your brother won the golden lot when the Reaping brought this human girl to be his mate.”
Cobalt’s face falls, and my eyes snap away from him.
“I’m going to clean up,” I say. “I’ll return to check on the king after.”
I make my way back to Aspen’s room, wanting nothing more than to be rid of stairs. Why did he have to place his bedroom nearly at the top of the palace? By the time I reach it, I find a bath of steaming water waiting for me. I probably have Lorelei to thank for that, although I can’t imagine how it was filled in the time it took me to get here. Without delay, I peel off my blood-stained dress and toss it in a heap in the corner of the room. If the fae don’t have any powerful detergents to clean blood from silk, the dress is ruined. I hadn’t considered asking for an apron before the surgery began.
A moan escapes my lips as I sink into the tub. I feel like I could fall asleep, but as soon as I try to relax, my mind wanders to dark thoughts, making my muscles tense yet again.
I saved the king when I could have killed him. Should I have let him die? My heart sinks at the thought.
No. I did what I was trained to do. What I’ve always wanted to do. I saved someone.
I just hope his life was worth saving.
* * *
Hours later I make my way back to the room where I performed the surgery, only to find Aspen’s body being lifted by several guards. A wave of terror goes through me. Did something happen? Had my surgery failed to save him?
“What’s going on?” I ask.
A hand falls on my shoulder, and I find Gildmar at my side. “Worry not,” she says in her ancient voice. “He’s recovering.”
“Then where are they taking him?”
She looks at me, aghast. “To your rooms, of course. The king should recover in comfort and privacy, where his mate can tend to him with ease.”
I hate the way she says tend to him, as if I’m Aspen’s subservient woman, eager to fulfill his every need. But I understand the sentiment. I was responsible for healing him, after all. I can think of him more like my patient rather than my mate. Wouldn’t I want my patient to heal in comfort?
“Of course,” I say, trying to hide my irritation.
I follow the guards back to the bedroom, cursing the stairs twice over now that I’ve had to ascend them for the second time today, then watch as they lay Aspen on the bed. When they depart, Gildmar remains. “I brought you more extract of honey pyrus.” She hands me a vial. “Give him more when he seems to be in pain.”
“Thank you,” I say, then set the vial on the bedside table.
“I’m still astonished you managed to save him when I could not.” Gildmar’s voice comes out small, heavy with remorse. Then her eyes meet mine. “I never knew humans had such powers. Where did you learn such healing?”
“My mo—” I stop short, realizing I was about to say my mother when I’d meant to say Mr. Meeks. The mistake unsettles me, unearthing a flood of memories from my childhood. Memories of me and Mother “treating” her patrons. She’d stand at their heads, burning herbs over them, administering tinctures, while I’d place my hands over their bodies. Mother would praise me for clearing their energy and aiding in healing, and I would swell with pride. It wasn’t until Amelie nearly died that I understood my folly. That’s when Mr. Meeks showed me what true medicine was. When I realized Mother wasn’t a healer but a fraud at worst and an herbalist at best. When I stopped believing in magic.
I shake the memories from my mind. “Surgery is a miraculous thing,” I say instead.
She gives me a wide smile, making the corner of her eyes crinkle on her brown, bark-like face. Then she takes her leave.
I’m left alone with Aspen dozing on the bed. With slow steps, I approach him and look him over. Outfitted in nothing but a clean, elegant robe of bronze silk, his chest rises and falls in an even rhythm, face slack, lips slightly parted. He looks not
hing like the fierce, dangerous king I’ve come to know.
My eyes rove across his torso. His skin still looks pale, but a hint of gold has replaced the ghostly blue. At least the tendrils of black seem to have receded a bit, showing only a few thin veins peeking above the collar of his robe. I reach a hand toward the collar, slowly peeling it away to reveal the bandaged wound. The skin is still angry around it, red, black, and purple with plenty of black tendrils branching away, streaking in every direction.
I return the collar to cover his torso, but as I pull my fingers away, Aspen’s hand covers mine, heavy and warm. My eyes flash to his face, but his eyes remain closed. His face contorts, head rolling slowly from one side to the other. He mutters something I can’t understand.
I retract my hand from under his and rush to the bedside table. “You need more honey pyrus,” I say, then pour a dropperful between his lips.
His face relaxes and his muttering fades.
I watch him for a few moments, wondering what exactly I’ve gotten myself into. How long will I have to play nursemaid to him?
“Evie.” The word comes from Aspen’s lips, slow and heavy.
I try to ignore the irritation that lights a fire in my chest at the sound of my nickname—the nickname only Amelie ever used for me. “Yes, it’s me.”
“Are you…going…to kill me?” Each word comes out with great effort, but a smile tugs at the corner of his lips, eyes remaining closed.
“No, I saved you. Only iron knows why.”
He winces. “Don’t say iron.”
I say nothing, hoping the honey pyrus will return him to his slumber.
He lifts his hand, an action that seems to pain him, and motions me forward.
I take a hesitant step toward him, then another.
“Evie,” he repeats.
“What?”
“I wanted it to be you.”
My brows furrow. “You wanted it to be me for what? To save you? If you’re telling me you got wounded on purpose just so I’d have to—”
“No. At the wall.”
“The wall,” I echo.
“When you told me your name. I wanted it to be you. To be my Chosen.”
I clench my teeth, heat rising to my cheeks. “So, what? You killed the Holstrom girls so you could punish me instead?”
He shakes his head. “No. And I didn’t want to punish you. I wanted you.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re clearly drunk on honey pyrus, Your Majesty.”
“Don’t call me that.” His tone deepens, darkens, though his words still sound slurred and strained. “It’s Aspen when we’re alone.”
“Fine, Aspen. I’ll do you a favor and forget this conversation ever happened.”
Aspen goes quiet for a few moments. “I didn’t know you weren’t eldest,” he whispers, “until you arrived at the palace. I wanted to ask you if you’d be with me instead. Remember that night? The dining room?”
Heat rises to my cheeks, recalling the glamour he placed over himself. “How could I forget.”
“I was going to ask you then. But you hated me so much.”
A cold suspicion crawls up my spine. “Did you kill my sister? Did you kill her so you could have me instead?”
“No.” I’m surprised at the certainty in his tone. “She was sweet. Kind. I would never have hurt her.”
I shake my head. “Well, this is all coming a little too late. My sister is dead, perhaps because of you.”
His expression flickers. With pain? Sorrow? “It wasn’t her body.”
Ice chills my blood. “What?”
“The body. On the shore. Not your sister.” His face goes slack as he loses consciousness.
I move closer, putting my hands on each side of his face, lightly slapping his cheek. “What do you mean it wasn’t her body? Wake up! Explain, damn you!”
He remains silent, motionless.
My mind spins with questions, anxiety building and building higher and higher until I think I will explode. Is what he said true? Or was he simply hallucinating and speaking nonsense? Was he playing with me, trying to get into my head?
All I know is I’ll get those answers. I’ll nurse this son-of-a-harpy back to health if it’s the last thing I do. And if I find out he lied…well, that will be the last thing he will live to do.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I continue to monitor Aspen, seeking any sign that he’s returning to consciousness. The evening fades to night, and I alternate between dozing on the couch and checking Aspen for signs of life. I give him honey pyrus on occasion, but only partial doses. This means I have to administer it more often, but it also gives me the hope that I can catch him lucid.
So far, no luck. All he does is mutter and moan, face twisting in agony, each time he wakes. By morning, his skin is burning with fever.
I call for Gildmar and have her fetch me fresh spider silk cloth so I can change the dressing of his wound. She brings me more honey pyrus too, wine steeped with fae herbs, and an aromatic broth to try and feed Aspen. Each time I examine him, my stomach sinks. The tendrils of black have stopped receding. They aren’t growing, but they no longer seem to be fading away. His skin grows hotter and hotter.
“Is there anything else we can do?” I ask Gildmar. A full day has passed since the surgery, and I’m beginning to lose hope he’ll recover. “Are there any fae methods for reversing iron poisoning?”
She shakes her head. “A wound as bad as his could take months—years even—to fully recover from. It was too close to his heart, and the poisoning spread too fast.”
“How long do you think he’ll be like this? When will he wake?”
“Weeks, possibly.”
My hands clench into fists. I can’t wait weeks. Not after what he told me yesterday. I’ll go out of my mind wondering if what he said about my sister is true.
“At least he has your care,” she says. “I never thought much about human-fae pairings, aside from being a necessary function to maintain the treaty. But seeing you care for him like this…it makes me think I’ve been wrong about humans. Perhaps you aren’t all greedy invaders. Perhaps this peace we have is worth keeping.”
Guilt fills my stomach with lead. She has no idea I’m only caring for him in a purely professional manner. Has no idea my main motivation for bringing him back to health is to bleed answers from him. But if perpetuating the lie is what keeps humans and fae at peace…
“He’s very important to me,” I say with a pleasant smile.
She pats me on the shoulder. “I’m sure he feels the same about you. Now, I’ll leave you to rest. I’m sure you haven’t slept much.”
I watch her shuffle out the doors, suddenly curious how old she is. She seems ancient compared to Aspen, and Aspen is a thousand years old. It’s possible her age is unrelated to her appearance. Other Earthen fae might be like her, for all I know, considering the only other I’ve seen was the Earthen Court ambassador.
I return to Aspen’s side, then press the back of my hand to his forehead. Still burning. I push his robe aside and check the black veins, trying to find evidence that they are fading. His torso is hot to the touch, even warmer than his forehead. I take a seat on the bed next to him, my fingers skating across his skin until they reach his wound. I lay my palm over the bandages.
“Come out of this, Aspen.” My whisper sounds more like a hiss. “I’m not done with you yet. If you dare die on me, I will decimate your corpse and cut it into a thousand pieces, then feed you to a kelpie.”
Heat radiates from his skin, warming my palm through the cloth dressing. I grit my teeth, anger seething toward the wound. Even after everything I did to accomplish a successful operation, it still wasn’t enough. He’s still suffering, fighting against a poison I don’t understand. A poison no human antibiotic or fae remedy can help.
I hate feeling this helpless. Useless. Powerless.
I close my eyes, breathing away my anger. “Heal, damn you.”
Aspen makes a noise and my e
yes fly open. His face is contorted, twisted with pain, breaths labored. He tries to speak, but his open mouth pulls into a grimace.
I reach for the vial next to the bed and give him half a dropperful of honey pyrus. He doesn’t immediately relax, but the furrows between his brow begin to lessen. After a few minutes, his breathing evens out. His expression still looks pained, but his jaw has unclenched.
My hand moves to his forehead, and I’m startled to find a sheen of sweat over the skin. The fever has broken. That is, if fae process illness like humans do.
He tries to speak again, and I realize he’s asking for something to drink. I reach for the herbed wine. Despite my many protestations in favor of water, Gildmar insisted fae heal better with wine. I put the shallow bowl to his lips, help him incline his head to drink it. After a few swallows, he sighs, then lays back on the pillow.
“Aspen,” I say, “can you hear me?” Please be lucid. Please be lucid.
“Yes.” The word comes out like a croak.
“How do you feel?”
He grimaces. “Awful. Am I dead yet?”
“Not yet.”
His eyelids flutter. “I can’t…open my eyes. The light. It hurts.”
I reach for a clean cloth and immerse it in a bowl of cool water. After I wring it out, I drape it over his eyes. “Better?”
“No. I need more honey pyrus. The pain. It’s too much.”
I return to my seat on the bed, leaning in close. “I’ll give you more honey pyrus, but only after you answer my questions.”
A corner of his lips twitches into a half smile. “Cruel human.”
“Monstrous fae.”
“What do you want to know?” His words are still thick and heavy, barely above a whisper, but at least they’re coherent.
My pulse begins to race. “Yesterday you said the body you found on the shore wasn’t my sister’s. Was that true?”
He winces, but I can’t tell if it’s from pain or from the realization of what he said. “Yes,” he finally confesses.
To Carve a Fae Heart (The Fair Isle Trilogy Book 1) Page 19
