Page 29 of The King's Man 4

I stare at the various stages of concoction and glance wistfully at my hands. This would have been easier with magic. I’d have internalised all the different elements that I could call to my palms; could play around with variations without worrying about spillage, and liquids coagulating.

I squeeze my hands.The refugees don’t have time for my inner crisis.

Quin shifts in my peripheral vision.

Crises.

I haul in a steadying breath, and without looking at him, jerk my finger toward the back nook. “Take the bed.”

“Let me know if you need anything.”

Tension falls off me the moment he leaves. I take a minute to palm the table and rest my weight against it as a shiver races down my middle.

I divvy up a portion of the base liquid into various vials, and spend the next hours sweating and yawning as I mix and remix possible additions that might act as the last missing element.The room swells with the bitter scents of herbs and fungi, and every book in the apothecary has come out of its shelf. Damn venom. I slump onto my stool and glare at the vials.

Other vitalians may have ideas.

Two candles burn out, leaving only one flickering near the window. I contemplate finding more, but the sky outside has a blueish tinge. Dawn is approaching. I spend a few more hours tinkering, and then another grinding herbs and soaking potential fungi, and packing them in boxes for Quin to deliver along with the base. Save as much time as possible.

I find paper and ink and scrawl out some hypotheses and other notes for the vitalians. I yawn again and the words before me blur.

Just for a minute, I’ll rest my head.I curl an arm on the table in a wedge of free space and lay my head down. Quin has people who can help. It’ll all be alright...

I wake, bolting upright... in a bed. My boots have been removed and on a small table beside me is a fresh, folded change of clothes, and glittering in... evening light? my silver clasp sits atop the pearlweed gloves.

I stare at them for a long while, then with a sharp rise and fall in my chest, I swivel out of the bed and dress. I clasp my cloak and pull the soft gloves over my scalded hands. “My soldad would’ve been handy.”

I check the apothecary, but the shop is shut for business and—to my relief—Quin is not inside. On the table is a message—he’s delivered my notes and the base antidote to the vitalians he trusts most in Hinsard; I should rest and recover; he’ll see me later and we can ‘talk then’.

With a nauseous twist in my stomach, I head out for food—

And duck right back around a building, groaning as I strip a poster with my face on it off a wall.

Only once the dead nannan’s green veins appear will the magistrate’s office take the poison seriously, and with the grass evidence from the first murders holding traces of that poison, they can make the connection. When that happens, Nicostratus, who wasn’t in the city when the poison was ingested, will be proven innocent. And it will become clear I couldn’t have been his accomplice. My whereabouts during the days since doling out porridge will have to be explained, but no matter—by then the focus will be finding the true culprit and saving the refugees.

Until then... I raise my hood and grab a bun from a vendor packing away for the day, tossing payment as I pass. I bite into the tough dough and, at a stray thought, chew quickly.

Grandfather had notes on snakes and their medicinal properties, and many books remain in his Hinsard cabin, left unscathed by my father. It couldn’t hurt to venture out and grab them. Most likely the libraries and vitalians here will manage without, but just in case... And, bonus, the woods make it easy to avoid seeing people... er, being seen.

I hurry, head bowed, through a web of city streets to the wooded outskirts. As I cross the tree line, the last stretches of sunlight surrender to a blueish night alive with the shiver of breezes. The glow of the full moon keeps my path along the river lit.

Each step churns up dirt and the fallen reds and golds of autumn, and the damp, earthy scent carries memories with it.

Veronica’s manor. The royal woods. Running from redcloaks.

Nicostratus.

Each step is a thunk of my heart and a twist of guilt in my chest.

The swing bridge has been repaired since then and I pause in the middle of it, watch the rush of water beneath. We’d riddenthe wind to the tops of the trees, and I’d fallen, stopping and starting with interrupted gusts pillowing me.

I close my eyes and recall the fear, the fall, the flashes of rainbow. Prince Nicostratus had been fighting for control over a wyvern, barely trained himself and trying to keep the boy who’d latched onto his side alive.

Nicostratus.How many times I told Akilah our story. How many times I’ve whispered his name.

“Nicostratus.” It tastes different now.

I bow my head and, at a snapping of twigs in the near distance, snap it up again. I search for signs of movement amongst the trees, but all is quiet.

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