Page 8 of The Enemy's Daughter

Freia and I tiptoe to the wall closest to it so we can listen. No way are we passing up a chance to get information.

“I haven’t been told much,” Mum says softly. “But the Saraf didsay that if the Kingsland were to retaliate, it’d likely happen in the first twenty-four hours.”

Freia’s eyebrows shoot up, and I nod, equally concerned. Father doesn’t often talk to us directly about the Kingsland. Not that I haven’t heard things, or siphoned information from Liam, but he’s been firm in protecting us from the burden of politics and the defense of our territory. I glance at the old windup clock above the wash basin. It’s noon; we still have another eight hours before we reach the milestone of twenty-four hours.

Or, it’s already too late. For all we know, Liam, Father, and some of our best soldiers could be fighting for their lives this very second, doing everything possible to keep the clans from being destroyed. I press my forehead to the wall.Please don’t let it be that.

“Right. Okay,” Elise says. “I was also wondering if you would look at little Polly. I found some fenuweed and mixed it with oil, then rubbed it on her feet, but her fever won’t quit, and, well, you’re the expert with plants—”

“Yes, of course,” Mum says. The door opens and Mum strides back into the house, catching Freia and me hovering near the window.

“Whew!” Freia fans herself. “It sure is hot in here; good thing this window is open.”

With a disappointed frown in our direction—mostly my direction—Mum shoulders her travel bag of healing supplies from the hook by the door. “I’ll be back soon. Keep working.”

I push away from the wall as she leaves and fling open the old cabinet in the corner. Maybe a tablecloth could be cut up for bandages or a tourniquet—if I could find one.

Freia returns to grinding the jackoray bark. One of her tiny, long braids falls into her eyes, and she swipes it away. “How long do youthink we should wait before we can breathe a sigh of relief that the Kingsland isn’t coming?”

I eye her with a funny look. “I’m not sure we ever can.”

“Not even with Farron... ?” She doesn’t finish.

The cupboard doors slam as I close them. “No,” I say. “You’ve heard the same stories I have. Think of their worst attack on us, the first slaughter. And all the graves we’ve visited. Or the dozens of stories we’ve heard from survivors of their attacks. I don’t know about you, but I can’t forget their faces.” Sometimes morning academy felt like nothing more than a parade of mutilated men sharing their testimonies of barely surviving, all of them missing fingers and eyes. “There’s a reason they spent so much time making sure we took the threat seriously. It’s because the Kingsland is rotten to the core, and with or without Farron, the threat is real.”

I used to roll my eyes at having to memorize the patterns of attack sirens, or being forced to listen to another cautionary children’s parable. I didn’t want to practice how and where to hide during a potential attack, while the boys learned the basics of how to fight. I wanted to read and write and study the history of the old world. I wanted to spend my mornings focusing on being a healer.

But now I see that very little of the education I wanted is relevant. We need to be vigilant and report on anything suspicious, even among us, and we need everyone to stay within our boundary and follow the rules. To do that, we need a healthy dose of fear. It’s the only way we’ll survive.

“I know, you’re probably right. It’s just...” Freia scratches where her hair was a second ago, just above her eyelid. “I really hoped—

“Wait!” I blurt, then rush toward her. “Did you touch your eye with jackoray on your fingers?”

“Is that why it’s burning?” She blinks, then rushes to the bathroom mirror.

I follow her, but the stagnant bowl of handwashing water won’t do. I race back to grab a cooled bottle of boiled water for cleaning wounds. “Put your head in the sink and turn it to the side.”

She does, and after some coaxing, I properly flush Freia’s eye. She stands with a sigh, her face and some of her braids now dripping. I hand her an old, brittle towel, then reach to empty the bucket under the cracked sink.

Freia plops down on the toilet seat—thankfully the bucket under that is empty. “That was quick thinking. Your medical books tell you to do that?”

“Yes.” Taking another towel, I mop up the puddles on the wooden planks.

She hums. “I’m not sure I’m a fan of jackoray. We’re off to a pretty bad start. Is that what they used in the old world?”

I shrug. “I mean, it grew in their forests, just as it does ours, but they found far better ingredients to make the casts to hold broken bones than jackoray. The ones they talk about in my textbooks were so strong they had to be cut off at six weeks.” Normally I love when we’re alone like this and can talk freely about the way the world used to be, but I can’t help glancing at the kitchen. “We should get back to work if you’re okay.”

She straightens her green, quilted vest in the mirror, then snorts. “Good grief, I look like a drowned—” Her eyes suddenly go wide. “Do you hear that?” she whispers. “Hooves.”

I strain to hear over the quickening of my heart, and it doesn’t take long to catch the hoofbeats of a single horse. “They’re coming in hard.” On any other day, the sound of soldiers arriving isn’tconcerning. But today isn’t a normal day.

We run, my hand going for the knife in my pocket as Freia rushes to grab the bow mounted by the door. She fumbles with it, nocking an arrow so poorly it’s more likely to hit her foot than any enemy soldier. When she sees the knife in my hand, she nods approvingly. “At least we’ve got you.”

I remain silent as I open the door a crack.

She looks through, and then straightens and lowers her weapon. “Freddy?”

I exhale as Freia’s sixteen-year-old brother rides up. He jumps off his horse too early, stumbles, then runs toward the house—until he spots us and stops. “What the burning bull nuts are you doing with that?” he shouts at Freia. A few pieces of grass stick out of his thick, chin-length braids.

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