Dawn found the infirmary packed.

The chaos of Nemoralia had left more than a few with injuries. As soon as I’d awoke—Leda’s face still swimming in my mind—I wasted no time and went straight to work.

Those who were seriously wounded were already in cots, being tended by a veritable platoon of healers and priestesses. Yet still, those with minor injuries—mostly nobles—lined the walls, taking up precious space.

I ignored them. Passing their expectant, entitled faces, I headed towards a friend.

The Hearthkeeper paced below the tall windows at the opposite end of the room. Face pale and pained, she held a hand to the swell of her belly. Panic raced through me. If she had been caught in the temple the night before . . .

“Aphaea,” I said, reaching for her. I placed a guiding hand on her back and lead her towards an empty cot. “What is it? Are you hurt?”

“No, no,” she said with a grimace. “I wasn’t in the temple last night. But this . . .” She let out a pained gasp. “Gods, I wish I knew.”

Relief flooded through me. “Sit,” I ordered.

She lowered herself onto the cot with a low groan. As I studied her belly, the skin there grew taut.

“These spasms keep coming,” she said, “but it’s still too early for the babe, isn’t it?”

I counted the days in my mind. “A bit. But it’s possible she could make an unexpected arrival.”

Aphaea’s eyes widened. “She?”

I smiled. Thankfully, the High Healer was nowhere to be seen. “Yes. A girl.”

“Is she healthy? Are these pains . . .”

I placed a hand on her stomach just as another spasm began and counted the seconds before her womb relaxed. Then I sent my light moving beneath her skin. In answer, her belly roiled, the child awoken by the sudden warmth.

“She’s strong. Certainly God-Blooded on both sides.” I paused, chewing over my words. “You haven’t mentioned her father . . .”

Aphaea’s glowing cheeks reddened. “I don’t expect to see him again.”

I nodded. “Well, she is very lucky to have you.”

Her answering smile was warm, no trace there of regret over her missing lover.

I waited a moment to see if another spasm would rock her belly but, as I expected, nothing came.

“These are false contractions—your body’s way of preparing for the hard work of childbirth. They can become more intense when a mother is pushing herself too much. You need to rest.”

“But there is so much to see to. I have new novices to train—”

“Rest. Trust me, you’ll need all your strength when the baby gets here.”

After she was comfortably reclining on her cot, I made my rounds, pointedly the nobles. I set the broken nose of a tavern owner who’d rushed to help during Nemoralia’s panic, closed a gash in a guard’s forehead, and sent my light to work burning away several small infections before a passing swirl of pink fabric caught my eye.

An elderly Ostara priestess, still dressed in her ceremonial blush robes, hobbled around the room, a makeshift crutch of bleached driftwood beneath her arm as she helped tend the wounded. The priestess limped towards a noble who sat straight-backed on a cot. The female’s only visible wound was a bruised cheek and blackened eye. No doubt, the noble was desperate to have the unsightly bruises healed before the night’s feast, though I had no intention of offering her the instant results of my own skills.

The older female leaned her crutch against a supply cart and grabbed a jar of poultice and a stack of linens. With her hands full, she tried to walk without the crutch. She took a step, too much weight on her leg, and fell. The jar flew from her hands, shattering on the stone floor.

I rushed over to the Ostara, who tried to lift herself off the floor, but another beat me there.

A dark giant of a man, his arm bearing the brand that marked him as a human slave, hoisted her up.

With a nod of his head, he gestured to the nearest cot, where the noble sat, watching us with an upturned nose.

Hands at my hips, I fixed her with a hard stare. “Move.”

An overplucked brow arched at my tone. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

“No, but you certainly seem like a pompous ass. Move.” Heat unfurled within me and my fingers flickered.

Her eyes went to my hand and the blood drained from her bruised face. “Forgive me, Korai. I didn’t recognize you without your mark.”

“Move.”

This time, she didn’t hesitate. Tripping over her fine gown, she scrambled to join the other nobles who loitered about the room.

The slave helped the priestess onto the cot. She grimaced and reached for her leg. Bending to examine it, I pushed the fabric of her robe aside and loosed a low whistle at what I found. The laceration ran half the length of her calf. Dried blood and flecks of dirt coated her skin. “This should have been tended immediately.”

“I have told her this many times, my lady. She refuses any aid.”

“And you? What is an imperial slave doing in the infirmary?” I asked, studying him. He spoke with the accent of the Iron Hills—a land on the human continent—but there was an aura about him that I couldn’t quite place. Then I caught sight of the thin scar running up his forearm, and realization struck me. “You’re the man whose arm was crushed.”

He nodded. “I owe you my thanks, mistress.”

“What are you still doing here? The Imperial you work for seemed quite determinded to get you back.”

A slight smile. “It seems someone frightened him off. No one has come for me, so I’ve remained here.”

I blushed. Perhaps threatening to report the Imperial to Varian had been a tad much, but I was certainly happy the slave was free of him.

“Yes,” the elderly priestess spoke, drawing my attention back to the task at hand. “Tafari’s help has been invaluable in all this chaos.”

I went back to studying her leg. “Why did you not have a healer tend to this?”

She shook her head, white hair drifting over a shoulder. “It is the precept of our order to tend to others before one’s self.” Then her hand reached towards the swollen bruise at the corner of my mouth. “But you follow the same rule, don’t you?”

“I’d heal myself if I could, but my mother’s gifts only go so far.”

“Our goddess’ greatest attribute is her love for others,” she said with the familiar, solemn tone of the ridiculously devout. “Perhaps she wants you to live in the same way.”

I didn’t dare tell her that my mother’s love seemed to vanish as soon as she realized I was no longer her sweet little plaything. As soon as I reached the threshold of womanhood, my mother’s visits stopped. “The priestesses of your order are healers. You should know a wound like this must be cleaned and closed as soon as possible.”

“Some are, yes. We are also teachers, mothers to the motherless, protectors of the vulnerable… among other things.”

It was an effort not to roll my eyes. I ignored the lesson in Ostara piety and probed the wound with my power. Thankfully, there was no sign of infection. Unlike my treatment of Aidon’s wound days before, I performed a much more difficult task before letting my magic suture the gash. I concentrated, reaching into the Ether, and there, so small it was only a pinprick of shadow, I found Selene’s darkness. I performed the arduous task of drawing forth that magic. For a moment, the light at my fingertips failed. The magic in my own blood shrunk away, fleeing from the kernel of Selene’s power that I pulled from the Ether. Shuddering at its slippery touch, I sent it through the priestess’ blood.

She sighed, relaxing against the cot as the numbing drop of power banished her pain. I swayed and Tafari was there, a strong hand at my shoulder. I offered him my thanks and, breathing heavily, I waited until every drop of Selene’s magic was free of me before I called my light.

When it was done, the priestess stretched her leg experimentally, wonder smoothing the wrinkles of her face. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

I shrugged. “Your compound in the mountains is famed for its healers. I’ve heard pilgrims travel for miles to see your Superior.”

“Indeed . . . There is no one like her.”

Tafari offered me an alcohol-soaked cloth to clean my hands. As I did, the barest hint of overly sweet fruit touched my tongue. Not a lie . . . but tinged with the shadow of one. I glanced back at her. Her eyes—the brilliant blue of most Dorians—tracked my movements. There was intelligence there. And despite her advanced age, a strength.

“Are you God-Blooded, priestess?”

“Yes.”

“And your Superior? Who is she descended from?”

A hesitation. “Perhaps you’ll come to visit us, once your Trials are over. It would be an honor to have the daughter of the goddess we serve within our halls.”

I turned to Tafari, who watched the Ostara with a frown. Clearly, I wasn’t the only one bothered by her evasion. But why would a priestess devoted to my mother be so reluctant to share information about her order with me?

Tafari’s attention flitted across my shoulder, unease filling his dark gaze before he sunk into a deep bow.

The scent—citrus and oiled steel, thankfully with no hint of Elysa’s rose perfume—hit me before I turned. “Varian.”

Clean-shaven and dressed in a fine red tunic, Varian offered me a grin. “You know, darling, your work ethic is impressive. I’m absolutely lazy in comparison.”

Only then did I notice that the braziers had been lit. The wall of windows gave little light as the darkening blue of twilight chased the sun from the sky. “I didn’t realize I’d been here so long.”

“And now we are going to be unforgivably late.”

My heart dropped. “Another feast.” I turned to see if the priestess needed anything further, but she was already gone, walking easily over to the next patient. But Tafari . . . he was rooted where he’d been, head still low.

Varian tracked my gaze. “Is that an imperial slave?”

“No,” I said, not even thinking before I spoke. “He belongs to the infirmary now.”

The corner of Varian’s mouth lifted. “Though he has an imperial brand?” He chuckled. “Well, well . . . I’m surprised, darling. Though pleased. Claiming what you want . . . Already, you’re quite the queen.”

Claiming a person. If only so he didn’t have to return to whatever awful task his masters would find for him next. Guilt spread through my gut. “Shall we go?”

He offered me his arm, but his eyes were tight as I took it. “Aurora . . . you should know that Aidoneus has been arrested.”

I went very still, though my pulse lurched forward, the guilt within me turning to something cold. “Oh.”

“I know he helped you last night . . .”

“Saved me.” Even if he’d carried me through the dangerous land of the dead to do it.

His features darkened at my tone. “Don’t you think it might have been planned? That he might have engineered it all to gain your trust?”

I kept my silence.

The muscles at his jaw clenched. “She had his ring, Aurora.”

Suddenly, I was exhausted. “Yes,” I said softly. “Yes, she did.”

I held onto him, not trusting my own feet to carry me as we made our way to my chamber. When we reached the door, he released me, moving to lean against the opposite wall while I dressed for the feast.

I tried not to think of much as Parthenia helped me into a gown of black silk.

The city was meant to be mourning Leda, but a change of wardrobe seemed like too little against what she had endured. Again, Aidon’s irreverent face filled my mind. I forced it back. No. Don’t think.

I stood still as marble as Parthenia lined my eyes with kohl and belted my waist with a gold chain. Seeing that I couldn’t bear much more vanity, she simply combed and oiled my hair until it shone, leaving it loose to drape down my back in soft waves.

When I opened my door, Varian wasn’t alone. A retinue of Imperials had joined him.