I smooth his long, shiny hair from his swollen forehead and cheeks. He gazes up at me with his deepset eyes before shutting them. I so admire his trust. Would I do the same with a relative stranger? Doubtful. “Let me know if it hurts,” I say, as I apply the mix and gently rub it in with the index finger of my good hand. With my other hand, I keep strands of hair from the gooey mix. When I apply it to the pus-filled gaps in the cut Armonk groans but claims it’s not so bad. He’s lying. A wound that badly infected stings even when nothing touches it.
“What are you doing?” Blane treads in with heavy boots, his weight and presence sucking up the free air in his wake.
“Armonk’s face is infected,” I snap. After all, it’s Blane’s fault! Blane slinks out, knowing better than to encourage another arrow in his back. But not before he throws me one of his shrouded, troubled stares. What does he want from me?
After the salve is smeared over the expanse of Armonk’s once-chiseled features, I slip back into the sagging easy chair to wait—for signs of allergic swelling, or toxicity from poisoning. And I wonder what I’ll do, with no doctor for miles, if that happens. The only one that I know of is back at my old compound. Would I risk going back to save Armonk, a boy I hardly know? I hope I never have to make that decision. My eyes sink lower. Sleeping is safer in the afternoon when the sun still hovers on the horizon.
Waking with a shudder, I jump up to look at Armonk’s injury. He’s not in the chair, and the sky outside is purple night. Good god, how long was I sleeping? Why didn’t he wake me? I scramble into the dining room. “Anyone see Armonk?” I call out.
Armonk himself emerges from the kitchen carrying a steaming plate of potatoes. For a moment, his face is covered with hot vapor, so I rush forward, impatiently swerving around the plate to examine him up close. Will it be bad?
Sweet baby Fireseed! The swelling is entirely gone. And the black-edged cut is now a pink, rheumy zigzag traversing his facial planes like a spirited river. My dad’s voice plays in my mind. “Fairy princess of mine, poof! Your magic has worked.”
Armonk places the potatoes on a hotplate in the middle of the table. He faces me, with his eyes alight. “Great job, Ruby, It’s not throbbing anymore. I don’t know how you did it.”
Bea comes out with a bowl of sautéed Fireagar. She sees me gaping at Armonk’s face. “You fixed that?” she asks. I nod.
Thorn slips in through the kitchen door as the last of the dinner is carried to the dining room. He peels off his burn suit, avoiding my stare. “Where were you?” I ask him when the rest of the crowd is in the dining room. He shrugs. “You can’t just go out anytime, anywhere you like. Speak up!” I demand before realizing that in my reflexive command, I’ve ordered him to do something he absolutely can’t. I sigh. “At least show me a sign that you get what I’m saying.”
He pats his pockets and takes out his fingernail clippings. Holds them up proudly.
“What in the world? Thorn, really! You’ve been outside chewing your fingernails? Stop it! You’ll eat your fingers to the bone with your obsessive nibbling.” I hate that I’m so exasperated by him these days, but isn’t it a guardian’s duty to apply a firm hand when necessary? Surely Nevada must keep a tight leash on her rowdy male students—on Vesper too.
Radius opens the door to the kitchen and peeks in. “You coming to dinner? We’re all waiting.”
“Be right in,” I tell him.
Thorn’s moon face grows dull with disappointment, which fills me, in turn, with terrible guilt. He sticks the fingernails back in his pocket. God only knows what he’s collecting them for. I put a hand on his shoulder as I ferry him to dinner.
When we sit down, people are already buzzing about Armonk’s miraculous healing. But they don’t all believe it had anything to do with me.
“I did see her messing around with his face,” Blane reports before he stuffs in almost half of a potato.
“What did you put on it, Ruby?” asks Bea. She’s freshly sponged off and her hair’s in a long ponytail. Radius, sitting next to her, glances at her admiringly.
“One of my special elixirs,” I say as I look around the table. “That’s what I bring to the equation. I can heal people who are burned, who have bad infections.”
“That’s a very handy skill, Ruby,” says Nevada. “Pass the greens,” she tells Jan, as she hands him the bowlful.
“Heal them with your drugs?” A sinister smile spreads across Vesper’s face.
Bea’s mouth opens as if she wants to come to my defense, but she’s silent. Is she so controlled by Vesper that she’s afraid to speak? Why?
“They’re elixirs,” I correct Vesper.
“Whatever they are, the infection’s gone,” Armonk insists. Indeed, his face is glowing with an ebony sheen, and once again, his high, elegant cheekbones are evident above his jaw.
“I call them drugs when you sniff them up and pass out,” says Jan.
“That’s enough!” shouts Nevada. She looks at Armonk and smiles. “I’m just glad you’re face is healed, however it got that way,” she adds, as if she can’t quite believe me either.
I sigh. This will still be an uphill battle. I guess I’ll have to prove myself again; although I hope no one gets sick enough to need it.
Chapter 11