Page 50 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

“Yes, my Lady.” The maid smiled. “It’s in the clinic. Would you like me to fetch it for you?”

“No,” Emillie said with a shake of her head. “I can get it myself. Thank you.”

With another quick bob, Penelope disappeared, leaving Emillie alone in the foyer again. She hurried toward the servant halls where the small clinic room lay. As Caersan vampires rarely became ill and healed quickly, the clinic’s main purpose was to assist the Rusan servants with any ailments they had. It remained stocked with bandages, medicines, and ointments of all kinds. Some were locally sourced, while others, such as what Emillie sought, were imported from the fae or mages.

Emillie opened the medicine cabinet and pushed jars aside until she found the Algorathian salve. The glass jar, filled with a thick, clear, gel-like substance, was too large and heavy to hold in one hand, even for a vampire. She tucked it against her body, distributing its weight across her forearm instead.

Back out of the clinic and further down the servant’s hall, she ignored the strange looks from the household staff as she passed. Odd though it may be for her to be in spaces most often occupied by Rusans, Emillie was on a mission and refused to let their uncertainty dissuade her.

At the end of the hall, she opened the door leading to the basement and started down the steep and narrow staircase. Some steps whined underfoot, and she hesitated on each one, her heart skipping a beat. Still, she continued on to the bottom, where she stared down the long hall of doors.

Everything about the place kept for the Rusan servants made Emillie uncomfortable. With little she could do to improve their accommodations, she merely chewed her lip before continuing forward. It was not her first time down there, and she did not anticipate it being her last.

At the end of the hall, Emillie paused in the doorway of the common room. Two Rusans, a man and woman, leapt from the couch to greet her as customary. She waved them off.

“Where can I find Madan?” Emillie asked, glancing over her shoulder again.

The woman stepped forward and pointed back down the hall. “The fifth door on the left, Miss.”

Emillie inclined her head. “Thank you.”

She backtracked the way she came and, stopping outside the fifth door on the left, she knocked.

For a moment, no one responded. Emillie worriedher lip again. Perhaps he had yet to return to his room. It had not been long since she saw the prison wagon, after all. Could he have gotten Azriel to his bed already?

The door cracked open just wide enough for someone to look through, then Madan slipped into the hallway.

“Miss Harlow,” he said, scrubbing his hands on a cloth. Deep crimson peeled away from his fingers, and a metallic scent wafted from the room as the door closed behind him. “What can I do for you?”

Emillie pried her eyes from the cloth covered in Azriel’s blood, hesitated, then held out the jar. “This is an Algorathian salve. It will help.”

Madan frowned and stared at the jar presented to him. “I’ve been ordered not to heal him with magic.”

Absurd. Barbaric. She stayed her tongue, though she allowed her features to convey her thoughts on the matter. She pushed the jar into his hands. “A good thing it is not magic, then.”

“An Algorathian salve is—”

“Merely a mixture of ingredients that anyone, mage or otherwise, could concoct.” Emillie moved his hand to accept the weight of the jar. “It was founded in Algorath and most of it is produced in the desert region, thus its name. But mage, fae, or vampire could make it.”

He chuckled and took it. “You know a lot about it.”

“As you know, I prefer to indulge in facts over fiction,” she said with a shrug. “Medicinals are one of my favorite subjects.”

“Well, then,” Madan said, patting the lid of the jar, “thank you.”

Emillie sucked in a breath and looked at the door behind the guard. “How is he?”

A ridiculous question, given it had been a mere hour since the final blow struck. Caersan vampires could heal from such malicious beatings within a day or two. Rusans, if they were lucky to survive, would likely take over a week. With Azriel’s strange heritage—a fae father with no magic—she could not even begin to guess how long he would take to heal. Assuming, of course, his Caersan blood saved him.

“Not well,” Madan admitted after a moment. “He’s sleeping right now.”

Good. Rest was good. The likelihood of seeing Azriel on his feet anytime soon was slim, then. The thought perturbed her.

“I think there is another jar in the clinic,” Emillie said, nodding to the one in his hand. “In case you run out. It really should help.”

“Yes.” Madan smiled down at her and rested his hand on the doorknob. “I will try it.”

Heart kicking up its pace, Emillie motioned for him to wait. He did, watching her curiously as she gathered her thoughts. There were some things only Madan knew that she doubted he had told anyone before. She needed to know now.

---