him,” she added, flicking her wrist at two of my uncles.
I narrowed my eyes on them, communicating my displeasure with my eyes since I couldn’t say it out loud.
“It’s a new age,” Uncle Aten pronounced. “Female dragons are leaving the den more, having more freedom in their lives. I’m all for it, personally. I feel like a miserable bastard every time I tell one of my daughters or nieces they’re not allowed to do something they want to do.”
“We thought you’d be all for seeing your sisters out and about more, Levi, after the announcement at your shindig last night,” Uncle Leander added.
“Absolutely,” Shira agreed cheerfully when I glowered at him. “I’m Shira,” she said, introducing herself to my sisters. “I’ve heard so much about the two of you, I’m glad we can finally meet.”
“We’ve heard so much about you,” Mara said adoringly, staring up at Shira. “After your party last night, everyone on our mountain is talking about the gold who is trying to get a place on the Council with her flight. I was telling them all this morning that it’s my sister.”
I froze, unsure about how Shira would respond to that. Shira didn’t talk much about her family, but we’d seen the death records. She’d had a sister once. There was a good chance that ‘sister’ was a sacred title to her, that spot already occupied by a little dead girl.
Shira grabbed Mara’s hand, giving it a tight squeeze. Despite the distance Shira maintained between them, it was an impressive amount of physical contact for Shira to initiate with a stranger. “Tell them all your sister isn’t going to take no for an answer.”
“I hope you didn't pay the fae in advance,” The Alchemist said, interrupting the moment as she shuffled around the Scribe, poking and prodding at him none too gently.
“No, but we already agreed to, and I won't go back on a deal,” Ezra sighed.
“Foolish,” The Alchemist scolded quietly. “The fae are sneaky. My least favorite customers.”
“Fae hatred aside, why do you hope we haven't paid them?” Shira asked impatiently.
“You know why. This male does not have Queen's Fever.”
Shira didn't look particularly surprised. She must know even more about illnesses and herbalism than we'd given her credit for.
“What's wrong with him then? Shadow Plague? Undine Pox?”
My sisters and uncles were looking at Shira like she was a genius.
“Poison.”
“Poison?” Ezra repeated, his voice dangerously low.
The Alchemist hummed her assent as she began looking through the contents of her bag. “Just good, old-fashioned poison. Get some water boiling. It’s a simple remedy, at least. Someone’s given him brulic. It’s slow acting, horrible way to go.”
“If someone wanted him dead, why would they give him something slow acting?” Shira breathed, looking puzzled.
“It's easy to get hold of and most would assume it's Queen's Fever because most are stupid,” The Alchemist replied flatly, moving her ingredients onto the narrow stone counter and pulling out a knife.
“I think she just gave you a compliment, babe,” Hiram mock whispered.
Ezra boiled the water while The Alchemist flitted around the small kitchen space. Shira drifted over to the counter, enthralled as she watched The Alchemist work. Shit, I hoped she had everything because the Scribe was worsening by the second. His breathing was increasingly shallow and accompanied by a rattling noise that sounded like death.
My sisters had moved closer to his bedside, watching him with tears in their eyes. As single girls from a fatherless home, they'd been recruited as nursemaids by extended family more than once. Usually for childbirth, but also when someone was ill. It bothered me that this sight was familiar to them.
“Prop him up against the pillows,” The Alchemist instructed, adding boiling water to the mixture she’d created. The small apartment filled with a pungent, floral smell. It was so sweet that it made my stomach churn.
Seff and I moved to either side of the Scribe and lifted him as gently as we could while my sisters rearranged pillows behind him. He groaned as his head lolled forward, chin resting on his chest, drool running down his chin.
Poison.
Who would poison the Scribe? It was unlikely that it was someone vying for his position, given how depressing this little apartment was. He didn’t even get paid.
//It must have been Nerio,// Ezra said, his thoughts following the same track as mine. //He didn’t advertise the Council position, hoping it would go to his son’s flight. He’d have control over their votes if they got the seat.//
//And he’s intending to go with