Page 16 of Tethered In Blood

She scoffed and brushed past me to the table where the discarded bandages lay. “That’s why I sent Quinn to her quarters.” She flicked a loose thread from the table. “I knew you would get up the moment you had the chance.”

I grunted. “Quinn?”

Calder sighed and turned to the infirmary desk, picking up a small, worn leather-bound book. My eyes flicked to it, and my brow twitched in recognition. The image of that young woman clutching a leather journal with white knuckles at the garden archway came to mind. That meant she had passed Calder’s examinations that night.

How long had it been since then?

Weeks?

Maybe more.

“Quinn Larkspur. She keeps records,” Calder explained, leafing through the pages, “regarding the patients she treats. But the beginning… It’s different.”

I crossed my arms. “How does this concern me, Calder?”

“She has suffered.” Calder’s voice dropped. Her eyes roamed the pages, brow furrowed. “It’s in her writing. Hesitant. As though she expects someone to be reading over her shoulder.”

I leaned back against the infirmary wall, unimpressed. “You know what I do. We both know that people have suffered at my hands, no less. Stop being cryptic and explain why you think this is my problem.”

Calder closed the book with a soft thump and glanced at me. “Perhaps it’s not,” she said, tilting her head. “But I think it might be.”

Lacking patience, I huffed. “Just get to the fucking point, Calder. I have to report to Alric.”

She held my gaze for a moment longer, then handed me the journal. “Look through it. The beginning. I believe she can help beyond healing. Her competence stems from experience. We might need her more than you realize, Sinclaire.” She paused. “Hells,youmay need her.”

I snatched it from her hand with a grunt, prepared to dismiss whatever horseshit she was pushing this time. But as I flipped open the worn cover, my gaze fell upon the first few lines, and my brows furrowed.

It was overly cautious. Her words lingered on the page as if she had rewritten them several times before permitting them to remain. She omitted certain details, leaving gaps where explanations were needed. Calder was right: they weren’t just the notes of an herbalist or healer.

The still parchment crackled beneath my fingers as I flipped through a few more pages. Initially, the entries were ordinary: ingredient lists, dosages, and descriptions of effects. Yet, the way she wrote them gnawed at me.

The ointments and salves were standard enough, though the sheer number of pain-relieving mixtures stood out. Some were for muscle aches; others addressed wounds, burns, and bruising. I frowned and turned another page. Then came the poisons. A slow breath left me as I gripped the book tighter. Not just poisons.

Antidotes.

Many were common and well-documented. However, for others, the agony reflected in their listed symptoms extended beyond clinical observation. The descriptions were not detached; they weren’t authored by a healer who studied their patient from afar. They were too precise, too visceral.

They weren’t symptoms she had seen; they were symptoms she had felt. Certain toxins had notes scribbled in the margins—how long they took to set in, how the pain felt at each stage, and which body part seized first. The handwriting became tighter there, more frantic.

My jaw locked.

Had someone tested these on her?

A bitter taste rose in my throat. Poison wasnota casual interest by any means. It wasn’t something one could experiment with lightly. The notes weren’t just a healer’s curiosity, but a matter of survival.

I shut the book and drummed my fingers against the leather before curling them around the edges.

Calder observed me with a stoic expression. “You see it now,” she murmured. It wasn’t a question.

Running my fingers through my hair, I tucked the book under my arm. “I don’t know what I’m looking at,” I admitted.

Calder tilted her head. “No?”

I shot her a glare. “I sense someone who is concealing something. Someone more knowledgeable than she admits.” My arm flexed against the leather binding. “Someone who has endured more than she will reveal.”

Calder nodded, as if that was what she expected to hear. “And?”

“And what? You expect me to fix it?”

---