“Oh. Good. I think a slight subtraction of ass would do us all good.” Charles took my hand, threading our fingers together.
I squeezed his hand. “Thank you for trusting me and also still wanting to be my friend. Perhaps my initial temperament was spurred by some small jealousy-like feelings I harbored, given my own desire to be a physician.”
“The terrible truth comes out.” He unlaced our fingers and smiled, still nervous. “Perhaps I antagonized you due to some choice comments.”
I winced. There must have been so many people Demeine had discounted and erased who had come before me. If only scrying allowed me to punch my past self, then perhaps I would be interested in learning it.
“We are our own,” I said. “Do you think the Laurels mean that more broadly? That we get to decide who we are, not Demeine, our parents, or the king?”
“Probably,” he said, “and I imagine that anyone Demeine has cast aside would find a home with them.”
Another thing I had never thought to ask.
“I won’t let anyone find out, and if anything happens, I’ll help,” I said slowly.
He sniffed. “Good.”
We lapsed back into silence, and I shifted.
“I’m not good at reading moments emotionally—my mother always said I had the emotional depth of a puddle during a drought—so this might be off, but do you want to find a practice hog and work on our surgery skills?”
“Absolutely.” He raised one ruddy eyebrow at me, and his starry cheeks dimpled as he smiled. “Have you ever worked on facial wounds?”
“No, not really,” I said and leapt off my stool. “Why?”
“Because I’m going to be so much better at it than you,” said Charles. “They bleed atrociously and are common to see in the field. We need the practice.”
“You’ve had a whole year more than me to practice,” I muttered. “You won’t be better for long.”
He hummed. “We’ll see.”
Charles was much, much better at it than me. We worked for a good while, Sébastien eventually joining us around supper. By dusk, we were lagging, and Sébastien slapped Charles on the shoulder to pull his attention away from his stitchery.
“You have to write your parents before you leave,” Sébastien said, “or they will murder us both.”
Charles blinked up at his friend. “Don’t be ridiculous. Laurence would save us.”
We said our goodbyes until the morning. I walked slowly, not wanting to interrupt Rainier and Madeline’s time together. I had never had a sibling or even a friend closer than an acquaintance, but Madeline might have been that if we had more time. Rainier too.
“Thank you,” Madeline said as I entered the room. She was sitting on her bed with Rainier next to her, several leaves of paper between them, and she patted the bed next to her. “We’re writing letters home.”
“And to each other, in case we die.” Rainier handed me a blank scrap of paper as I sat on Madeline’s other side. She leaned her head against my shoulder. “Join us.”
I fiddled with the pen, hooked an arm through Madeline’s, and nudged her head off me. “No peeking.”
She laughed but turned away.
I wrote the only thing I could think of to both of them to read in the event of my death.
Please, do not follow me.
Twelve
Annette
It was easy being Emilie des Marais. I hadn’t been before. I’d only been using her name and wearing her clothes and drifting through her life like a fake ghost in an ill-fitting costume, but I was Emilie des Marais here. I was a comtesse. I was powerful.
Madame Bisset cleared her throat, a thick ledger in her hands. “Now, what would you do with the leftover funds?”
I could afford the fall.
“Stop charging rent on my estate and hire a full-time surgeon for each area in the province.” I had spent the last ten minutes working out the numbers, and Emilie des Marais could do that and still be making money every year. Not as much money, sure, but what else was she going to do with it? “Maybe a physician for the ports.”
“Emilie,” Bisset said in that calm, smiling voice most folks used for toddlers. “Why?”
Least she didn’t question my calculations.
“Because I can,” I said. “The point of living in a society is taking part in society. We make sure roads and bridges are well cared for, but not the people who need them? Not the people building them? Not the people doing all that work for me?”
“You already pay them.” Bisset sighed. “The order of the