Page 119 of A Thief to Die For

Gifts are given, willingly. What Agatha did, she did on purpose.

I wake the next morning to Samuel violently shaking me, and although he scowls at how much I’m shivering, my spirit feels … lighter?

But I can’t say the same for my body, which is rapidly giving out. Multiple times, I almost tumble off my horse. I also throw up with every drink of water. But the dream of Agatha, or whatever that was, lingers. A reminder that I didn’t kill her. I never would have. Her healing me was her choice. But also, I can’t really honour her sacrifice – this second chance at life, however short it might be – without letting go of the guilt.

When we ride through the gates of Kingsland, I’m rushed straight to the hospital, placed in a bed that must have been stolen from heaven, and started on medicine. Then I sleep like the dead.

I wake to cold fingers prodding my bare chest.

‘Hi,’ I say to Isadora, Tristan’s wife, who’s also Dr Henshaw’s apprentice. I think I slept a full twenty-four hours, and it didn’t fix a thing. I still feel like I got shot; still burning up and sweaty.

‘Hey, soldier.’ She smiles grimly, then places what looks to be rotting leaves over my still-open wounds – although I know I’m in good hands. ‘I see you’ve been out catching arrows with your chest.’

Tristan’s sitting on a chair behind her, elbows on his knees, and I give a sleepy smirk. ‘Occupational hazard. What can I say?’

Tristan snorts. But what I really see is relief on my cousin’s tired face. He stands and stretches. Something tells me he hasn’t left that chair in a while.

I glance down at Isadora’s plant handiwork, her healer specialty. ‘So are these leaves gonna make me better? Because I’ve got somewhere to be.’

Her soft smile falls. ‘The infection you have is very serious. We put you on antibacteriums – a few different kinds – but you’re going to need poultices and herbal teas every few hours, everything we have in our arsenal to get you better.’

‘Sure.’ I attempt to sit up in bed and grimace. ‘Just give me a day or so, then we can pack it up. I’ll take it with me on the road.’

She places a hand on my shoulder, hardly pressing me down, but I flop back to the mattress with a smack. ‘No, Ryland. I’ll need to monitor this. Adapt the formula of the poultices. Try different herbs.’ She bites her lip. ‘You’re not leaving here for a while, and treatment could take many weeks.’

Tristan clears his throat. They lock eyes, and it couldn’t be more obvious they’re using memories of their thoughts to have a discussion in their heads.

I never cared before, other than being playfully envious. But now it stings. Being connected to someone, woven together by those invisible fibres, was one of the wildest experiences of my life – even though my version was only a fraction of what it could have been. And now it’s just … gone. Every tie, linking us together. Any chance of it ever happening again.

‘Samuel mentioned there’s a girl – you planning to go back for her?’ Tristan asks.

‘Yes.’ As soon as possible. But then I wince, remembering how I left her. Her grief. The dead look in her eyes. ‘It might be for nothing, though. I don’t know if I’ll be able to convince her to come back with me to Kingsland.’

‘Why does she have to come back here?’

‘Because,’ I say, baffled. ‘I vowed to serve Kingsland.’

Tristan chuckles mirthlessly.

As an elite guard himself, he knows the creed we live by. ‘It’s not exactly honourable to walk away from a commitment I made.’

He gives his head a half shake. ‘You and your blasted honour.’

I scowl, too tired for this. ‘What’s wrong with my honour?’

‘Nothing. It’s just …’ His gaze drifts to Isadora. ‘What’s the point of it all? Honour? Integrity? Duty? The kind you die for, if not for love?’

The fight drains from me.

‘And you don’t have to choose between them, you know?’ he continues. ‘You can serve Kingsland from anywhere, especially with a trading partner.’

Isadora pats my shoulder after covering my wound. ‘I’ll come back in an hour to change the herbs under that dressing.’ Her head dips. ‘I’m glad you’re home.’

The days in the hospital are filled with sleep, pain and visitors. And by visitors, I mean every person I know, but especially the unmarried women. My room is overflowing with food, which Samuel happily devours, and I get offers to do everything from washing my clothes to washing me. At one point, I beg Tristan to put a sign on the door that announces: he doesn’t have the connection any more. But Tristan only laughed at me.

‘It’s your winning personality,’ he said. ‘And besides, everyone already knows. Word travels fast.’

A week later, I’m well enough to sleep at home, but there isn’t much sleep being had. The not knowing is killing me. Did Marian make it back to Notting without any trouble? Is she safe now among the guards? Doing okay?