Page 44 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
“So is dying from an internal infection we could have caught.” She crosses her arms. “Your pride isn’t my concern. Your health is.”
I glare at her, searching for words cutting enough to slice through her professional armor. “I can take a bath without help. I’ve been doing it since I was three.”
“I won’t have you falling on your head and forgetting what little you do remember,” she counters. “Not on my watch.”
“I’m not an invalid?—“
“No, you’re a Skysinger who disappeared for a year and returned with unexplained injuries, memory loss, and the physical condition of someone who’s been starved.” Her voice softens slightly. “Whatever happened to you wasn’t gentle, Wyndward. Let me do my job.”
I want to fight. I want to storm out. But the quiet certainty in her voice pins me in place. What if there is something wrong with me? Something beyond the obvious? Besides, I need to find my place here and going against everyone isn’t going to help with that.
“Fine,” I spit out. “But if anyone looks at me with pity, I’ll throw the stool sample at their heads.”
Sandtide’s mouth twitches. “Fair enough.” She pulls back the curtain and calls, “Apprentices! Bath and sample collection for Skysinger Wyndward.”
The humiliation begins.
16
Rhea
Three days in the infirmary. Three days of being poked, prodded, and examined like I’m some rare specimen in a glass jar.
“Follow my finger with just your eyes,” Sandtide orders for what feels like the hundredth time. Her finger moves left, right, up, down. “Now touch your nose, then my finger. Again.”
I comply, though my jaw aches from clenching. Yesterday it was arranging wooden blocks into specific patterns. Before that, reciting number sequences backward. Naming cities in alphabetical order. Drawing a map of Embernia from memory.
“Satisfied?” I ask as she scribbles another note.
“Not remotely,” she responds without looking up. “Your reflexes are improving, but your irritability remains consistent.”
“Being imprisoned tends to have that effect.”
Sandtide glances up. “This is a healing room, not a prison cell.”
“Tell that to my bladder. I’ve pissed in more jars this week than in the rest of my life combined.”
She huffs. “Hydration is critical to recovery.”
“You’ve had me drinking enough water to drown a dragon.”
“And your color and strength are better for it.” She puts down her notes. “Now, lunch.”
On cue, an apprentice brings in a tray laden with roasted meat, vegetables, and a chunk of dark bread that smells like heaven. My stomach growls despite myself.
“All of it,” Sandtide warns. “I’ll check the plate.”
She’s not bluffing. On my second day, I tried hiding vegetables under my bread crust, and she made me eat double portions.
As I eat, I hear voices outside the infirmary door—familiar ones. Nate Torchfist, Adelaide Icesurge, and Phoebe too.
“She needs rest, not agitation,” Sandtide says firmly.
“We just want to see her,” Adelaide insists.
“Five minutes,” Nate adds.
“Please,” Phoebe begs.
