Page 29 of The Frog Prince
“I took a gamble with her life. She was already dying and she wouldn’t have seen the morning. I gave her a mix of things I hadn’t tried before and prayed.”
It was a half-truth, but it had a foundation to it.
“You aren’t a believer,” Henne said.
“No, I am not. But maybe there is someone out there who heard it.”
Henne stared at him for a moment, mouth pinched into a thin line.
“Maybe,” he said finally, releasing Otto’s hand but very clearly not satisfied with his answers. “Be prepared to explain yourself to everyone else who’s sick in this place. I won’t be making excuses for your little…miraculous breakthrough. In fact, you can get started on recreating such a cure. I want a list of ingredients or you can find another mentor.”
“I-I have no idea what they were,” Otto stuttered. “I simply found them. Henne, please—”
Henne walked past, dismissing him.
Otto clenched his fists futilely, staring at his back.
He had wanted to try and find the ingredients to the cure on his own to make it up to the town if he could. This ultimatum was forcing his hand. He didn’t want to hand anything over to Henne, someone who would hold the cure for ransom for coins people did not have.
He closed his eyes over the frustrated tears forming.
Nothing to be done. He walked out of the house and began his journey back home, the dark path and chill air forcing him to move quickly.
He looked straight ahead, the hairs on his neck standing up and each rustle around him feeling like a threat.
He felt like he was being watched.
Followed.
He sped up, breath catching in his lungs as he recited to himself,Not real. Not real. Not real.
He burst through the door of his house, slamming it shut behind him and leaning against it.
“Otto?” Gisela called from her room. “Is that you?”
“Yes.” His voice sounded clipped and breathy. He locked the door and walked toward her room, leaning against the doorframe and looking at her as she lay in her bed in her nightgown by the light of a single candle, book in hand. “You’re still up? It’s well past midnight.”
“I could say the same to you,” she said. “There is stew for you in the kitchen.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Good,” she said quickly, fiddling with her book. “I was feeling a bit tired, so I turned in early.”
He frowned hearing that, but it wasn’t unusual for a person who had been bedridden for so long. “Did you eat?”
“I did.” Her gaze moved over him in turn. “You look awful.”
“Thank you,” he said jokingly, desperate to hide his true feelings from her keen eyes.
Luckily she chuckled. “Eat and get to bed. We need to see what we can find for food tomorrow; there’s hardly anything left in the pantry.”
The words left a sick feeling in his stomach. There wasn’t enough to go around as it was.
“I’ll handle it,” he told her, pushing off the doorframe. “Sleep tight.”
“You too,” she said, setting her book aside now that he was home.
He closed her door and walked back downstairs to the kitchen, dishing out a few spoonfuls of stew and sitting down at the table to force himself to eat. They couldn't afford to waste any.
