Page 59 of The Enemy's Daughter

Of course they are.

“It’s a beautiful thing,” Enola muses. “And it’s only fair, after all. They used the connection to make this baby; why shouldn’t they use the connection to share the pain of birthing him?”

“You can use the connection to...” I blink, lost in thought. Then furious heat climbs up my face. There’s so much about the connection I don’t know.

Enola’s watching me, but I can’t meet her eyes.

“The connection is first and foremost to prosper you,” she says. “It’s a form of protection. That’s why wounds and pain can be shared. Then for unity, memories and pleasure are shown. Experienced. Everything must be consensual, of course, but it’s built on the foundation that two strands woven together will always be stronger than one.”

“I’m sorry, pleasure is what?”

Enola’s head tilts. “I think the best explanation is to just try it, my dear.” Mercifully, she’s lowered her voice to a whisper. “Even something as simple as a kiss can be—”

“Sandy, how are the Peterdorns doing?”

I spin around and find Henshaw at the top of the stairs. His question is directed to a gray-haired woman just leaving their room.

He’s here! Good. This is good.

But like a rock that won’t stop skipping over the water after being thrown at high speed, I can’t stop my mind from returning to what I just learned about the connection. Is pleasure not alwaysan experience? How is this different?

And what would it be like toexperienceany of that with Tristan?

Stop thinking about it.

Sandy slips a paper into her blue apron. “Six centimeters and progressing nicely.”

Henshaw nods. “Okay, we have some time.” His reluctant gaze slides to mine. “Right. Well, keep up,” he says, before speeding down the hall.

My legs protest as I force them faster than I’ve walked in what feels like ages, but I manage to maintain his pace, feeling oddly buoyant. With a wave, Enola stays behind.

“So, did you specialize in anything?” I ask. When he doesn’t answer I add, “As a surgeon.”

Henshaw gives me a wary look.

Am I not allowed to talk?

“I’m a circulatory surgeon, not that it matters. Here, I’m merely a doctor. With our limited supplies, I do what I can with what I have.”

“So you’re unable to do surgery... because of the lack of supplies.” It’s disheartening to hear that they don’t have solutions to the same problems we face. Try as we might, medicinal herbs can’t fully replace old-world antibacteriums and anesthesia. The only surgical exception we’ve learned we can make is the removal of infected limbs and fingers. Which, even with the use of paralyzing herbs and poppy extract for pain, can be horrific for the patient. And then comes the fight against sepsis.

“That’s not what I said.” He sighs. “We’ve sourced old but still useful antibacteriums, and I’ve been able to replicate sulfuric ether by distilling sulfuric acid with wine. It was what they used hundredsof years ago for anesthesia. When inhaled, even through something as rudimentary as a wet towel, it’s satisfactory to complete the job.”

“Sulfuric ether,” I repeat under my breath. And—stars—they have a source for proper antibacteriums.

We enter a room at the end of the hall.

The young man in the bed is reading a book while his left arm rests on a pillow, palm up. There’s a simple white bandage wrapped around the wrist.

“Feeling okay, Grenner?” Henshaw lifts the man’s arm without asking for permission and unties the white cloth.

Grenner’s eyes flick uncertainly to me. “As good as can be, I guess. Hand hasn’t fallen off.”

My brows shoot up.

The last of the white strip pulls away from his skin, revealing a stitched line over half of the width of his wrist. “What happened?” I ask, moving closer. His stitches are impeccable, and the dark, wiry thread is definitelynotboiled horsehair.

“Grenner had an accident with an ax yesterday,” Henshaw says.

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