Sophie was pretty sure she could guess.
He held up both of his fists with no fingers raised. “That many. I really thought she would. She even defended it. My dad said I’d wasted an afternoon when I could’ve been preparing for my Foxfire entrance exams, and she told him she thought it was pretty. I’d painted the flowers from memory after studying for the agriculture exam—not that my dad cared. So I thought she’d wear it. But nope. She always wore the ugly ruby necklace he bought her.”
He tapped the bottle so hard it slipped out of his hand and bounced to the edge of the tent.
Sophie got up to grab it, sucking in a breath as she put weight on her burned leg.
“That’s what you get for climbing out of bed before I tell you,” a sharp voice scolded.
“Hey—it’s the boobrie dude!” Keefe said as a green-cloaked figure slipped into the tent. “Got any more of the good stuff?”
The boobrie dude frowned, which looked especially strange now that Sophie understood what Keefe meant about his mask. The black metal had been decorated with yellow feathers that stuck through the fabric of his hood.
“I don’t think you should give him any more,” Sophie told him.
“No, I don’t think so either,” the boobrie dude agreed. “Don’t worry, his head will clear soon. What about you?” he asked Sophie. “You’re not having the same side effect?”
Sophie held up her still-full vial. “Didn’t seem like a good idea. Plus, I had to make sure there’s no limbium in it.”
“Ah, so you’re the one with the allergy—I wasn’t sure if it was you or the other girl. I was careful just in case. Now let’s see that burn.”
Sophie stretched out her leg, cringing when she saw the blisters coating the top of her foot and running all the way to the middle of her calf.
He pulled out a nearly empty tube and squeezed the last of its contents onto the burn. The cream was gray and chalky and felt scratchy on her blisters.
“We’re out of numbing ointment,” he explained. “We’re out of most everything, but this should be enough. I make what I can with any herbs I stumble across, but what I wouldn’t give for one measly supply shipment.”
“The Council doesn’t send any?”
He snorted. “All they ever send is more Waywards—though never five in a single day before. How’d you manage that?”
Sophie shrugged. “The Council doesn’t like us.”
“Well, it’s good you’re used to that, since the Coaches don’t like you either. You ruined the Arch of Dividing.”
“They were the ones who left us dangling like pi?atas.”
“Pi?atas?” he asked.
“They’re a human thing.”
“Well, I’m assuming comments like that are what got you here. Probably those eyes, too.”
“Hey, I like Foster’s eyes,” Keefe told him. “Brown is so much warmer than blue.”
“You two should be careful,” the boobrie dude said as Sophie blushed. “Names are not welcome here.”
“Does that mean I can keep calling you boobrie dude?” Keefe asked.
“If you must. But I’m serious about my warning. Keep to yourself. Focus on the skills. And wipe off that leg.”
It took Sophie a second to realize he wanted her to use the towel he was offering, which didn’t necessarily look clean. But there weren’t any other towels, so Sophie wiped the gray gunk off her skin, relieved to see no trace of the blisters.
The boobrie dude nodded. “You’re lucky she put out the fire so quickly.”
“She?” Sophie asked.
“Our Hydrokinetic. She called the wave that caught you—which should’ve gotten her ejected, by the way. But she also put out the rest of the fire, so the Coaches let it slide.”
“Why would helping me get her ejected?” Sophie asked, hoping it meant “expelled” and not actually being launched out of the campus.
“Because here it’s about everyone for themselves. And since you seem like the type, you should know it would be a terrible idea to thank her. Communication will get you both in trouble—and then you’ll have to deal with the Shade.”
The way he said the word gave Sophie chills. “Who’s the Shade?”
“The worst Wayward here. And he’s incredibly protective of the Hydrokinetic. If you want to survive here, you’ll keep your distance from both of them.”
He turned his attention to Keefe, unwrapping the bandage and rubbing a green gel on Keefe’s ankle.
“How long have you worked here?” Sophie asked, hoping he’d say a long time. If she could learn something about the Psionipath, it would make the whole physician-visit-on-the-first-day thing less embarrassing.
“Honestly, I’ve lost count,” he said. “I think it’s been ten years, but it all blurs together.”
Ten years was a good answer. “Did you ever treat a Psionipath—or remember meeting one—over the years?”
“I’ve met several,” he said, turning back to face her. “Why?”