Page 130 of Daughter of No Worlds

I could smell the burning flesh.Opportunity.

“You know as well as I do that sometimes, we have to do terrible things for the sake of something bigger. You knew that when you spilled your blood on that contract.” Her mouth tightened, a sorrowful wrinkle forming between her brows. “Max was the most important person in my life. There was only one thing I loved more than I loved him.” Her eyes flicked back to mine, brighter, colder. “Ara. Only Ara.”

My stomach knotted. Love? Was that love? To betray someone’s trust so viciously? To make sacrifices on the behalf of so many other people?

No. Never.

I didn’t trust myself to open my mouth. Nura rose, wandering to the desk and looking at those little glass bottles.

“He came back last night, then?”

For some reason, my answer made my chest ache. “Yes.”

I watched the corners of her mouth lift into a little, mournful smile. “I knew he would.”

Chapter Forty-Five

Max

Istrode through the streets with my hands shoved into my pockets. The sounds of the city did nothing to drown out my thoughts, and the fresh air did nothing to distract me. The memory of Tisaanah’s voice when it was not her own still lingered constantly in the back of my mind, and with it came the looming dread of all that would come next — like an avalanche groaning above us, while I clutched the first broken stone in my palm.

I knew it would be bad. But I still had been caught off-guard by how hard it hit me — just to see Tisaanah when she awoke. How just looking at her made words tangle and fear tear through me like a mouthful of broken glass. I knew she had questions, and that soon, I would have to answer them. And I knew that I’d been too abrupt, too distant, this morning.

But I just… couldn’t. Not until I figured out how to confront all of this, and scraped up the courage to pull the lid off the box I’d sealed shut for nearly a decade.Soon, I told myself.Soon.

But for now, I just walked.

The shop was in the outskirts of the city, where buildings were still nestled closely together but far from the hustle and bustle of its center. It was a little thing, squished between two much larger businesses, but had a stateliness to it — even the front steps were immaculate, the plants neatly groomed, the burgundy paint gleaming.Esren & Imatread a sign above the door.

It was unlocked. I slipped in quietly and leaned against the frame, feeling awkward.

The inside of the practice was just as neat and quaint as the outside. Immediately within the door was a small waiting area. Two folded paper barriers hid the entrance to the back section, and I could hear voices from behind.

“—still can’t open these fingers, Healer.” The first sounded as if it came from an older man, audibly anxious. “And I told you that if I can’t do that then I don’t know how I’m gonna keep at my work.”

“I understand.” Sammerin’s voice. It couldn’t be a starker contrast to his patient’s brogue — smooth, steady. “And from the beginning, the goal has always been to make sure you regain full use of your hand. That’s happening somewhat slower than I’d anticipated, but that is completely normal.”

I took a step to the side, so I could peer around the barrier. I could see Sammerin’s back, and the back of his patient’s sun-spotted, balding head.

“There are twenty-seven bones in the human hand, and four major tendons,” Sammerin said. “When you first came to me, twenty of them were crushed, and three of those tendons were totally severed. Not to mention all of the muscle and skin that had been torn apart. See?” There was a rustling of paper. “Today, you only have five fractured bones left, and the tendons are re-growing nicely. We just need to take our time to be certain that all of the delicate connective tissues reattach properly.”

He said all of these things as if they were simply a collection of facts, steadfast and gentle. He was good at that. Taking the insurmountable and, quietly, making it surmountable.

It wasn’t a surprise — or, shouldn’t have been a surprise. But here I was, peering into the life of a man I called my best friend, and it hit me all at once exactly how selfish I had been, how uncompromising. I could count on one hand the number of times I had deigned to visit Sammerin’s practice over these last years, all the while he dropped in on me four times a week just to make sure I hadn’t hung myself.

All the things I’d missed, just so I could lock myself up in a fucking cabin somewhere and pray at the altar of my own isolation.

Behind me, I heard a door swing open, and a familiar voice pipe up. “Max? What’re you—”

But then, athump!,then acrash!, then a shatter.

When I looked behind me, Moth was on the ground, surrounded by scattered instruments and broken glass, and an overturned side table.

“Hi, Moth,” I said.

“Hi, Max,” he replied, somewhat sheepishly.

“Moth. How many times have I reminded you to—” Sammerin appeared from behind the barrier, then stopped short when his gaze fell to me.

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