Nathan was good at plenty of things. He really was! He was an excellent horseman, an equally good shot, and the best of his brothers at chess.

He was just very bad at playing it while sitting still. Or sitting still in general. Usually, he didn’t even bother trying.

Unfortunately, there was nothing usual about the situation. And right now, he was the only one who wasn’t being pulled in three different directions. Andrew was sitting with Charlene and her mother—which was certain to cause trouble, should the ladies survive. Seeing how the youngest de Burg still avoided even looking at his stricken mother and sister made Nathan glad to have a family that could be counted on in a crisis. Greg was sitting with Thoko, watching his babies—and the baby boys, too—while Morgulon was busy shadowing one healer or another, trying to keep everyone alive. According to rumours, Duke Stuard was holding on by a thread and the sheer stubborness of the Royal Healer, who was apparently determined to die of exhaustion before he watched his charge die.

Lane and Bram were doing the politics, dealing with the press and rounding up the last of the traitors. Their relatives.

Picot’s secretary was still on the run, but his daughter, Anne, had apparently taken one look at her father in the cell and started spilling the beans. Berenice Pettau on the other hand was begging to take on the Test of Faith, to prove her innocence as Lord Carter had done.

At least that was the latest rumour going around on the Grande Gallerie.

Nathan was hoping it was true. If the daughter hadn’t known, maybe the son hadn’t, either? That would mean that they didn’t have to worry about a traitor stabbing David in the back.

He was very glad to leave the religion to Lane. Even if it meant sitting still all day. He was sitting at his mother’s side, after all.

Watching her slip away more and more every hour.

If it weren’t for the apprentice healer who seemed to have decided she was his primary patient, Nathan was fairly sure she would be dead already—or at least in that deep unconsciousness the doctors talked about, the final stage of the poisoning.

Imani wasn’t quite there yet—though her skin had taken an unhealthy colour, the white in her eyes was all yellow, and her arms were locked in a sort of permanent cramp. Her legs and abdomen were swollen.

Nathan dabbed at the sweat standing on her forehead, and she muttered something unintelligible, her eyelids fluttering.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep, Mum.”

When she woke fully, she didn't know where she was, or why she was here. His presence seemed to ease that distress somewhat. Still, he was perfectly happy to let her sleep. He wasn’t even sure if he was doing the right thing, encouraging the young healer, giving her water, what little honeyed milk he could get past her lips. In a way, it felt like torture, to keep the sick alive, just barely hanging on. In pain.

All while the healer drained their powers a little more with every passing hour. What was the point? They had dragged all their elders here, and it still wasn’t enough.

Time was running out quickly.

Imani whimpered softly in her sleep. Nathan thought it was the cramps, the way her joints were locked, all the muscles straining against each other, that hurt her the worst. He had tried loosening them up, rubbing them, but it was no good. The doctors didn't know how to help, either.

Nathan looked around. Bram was out of sight, and Andrew sat bent over Charlene’s equally stiff and still body. Greg had fallen asleep, his daughters curled up against him, Thoko's hand in his hair.

Unhappily, Nathan drummed his fingers against the wood of his peg leg, crossed over his good one. He wanted to get up, to find Morgulon. To ask her to bite Imani now, while there was still some chance that the curse might help fight the poison. They didn’t have much time left, did they? And a coin toss sounded a lot better than the odds she would face otherwise.

No one else in the family seemed willing to make that decision.

David wouldn’t have hesitated, Nathan was sure of that. But David was fighting on his own, far away.

And they were running out of time.

But if he got up now, there’d be nobody on her side in case Imani came to suddenly—which had happened before. She’d be disoriented and alone.

So he stayed put, no matter how much he wanted to get up and walk away. Even if it just meant searching the palace until he found Morgulon. Maybe drop by the infirmary. Poke some fun at George Louis while he couldn’t…

Nah.

Even that thought had no appeal right now. Damn Valoise, ruining everything.

He still couldn’t quite believe David had kissed the duke. Again. Or that Greg hadn’t even made fun of them all night after walking in on them. Again.

What a wasted opportunity.

It seemed like ages ago rather than a week since they had said goodbye to David.

Nathan tried to focus on memories of better times, but didn’t quite succeed. It didn't help when there was a commotion a few beds away: a doctor calling out, and a bunch of healers rushing over, to keep the person in that bed alive a few hours longer.

Once the rush was over, the young apprentice healer came back, falling into the chair next to Imani’s bed, sweat standing on his pale face. He let his eyes fall closed and snored within a minute.

Nathan glared at him. Imani didn’t stir, though, so he let the boy snore on. It ended abruptly when there was another commotion—this one would have been met with cheers if the mood hadn't been so dire. The city guard had done its job and apprehended Picot’s secretary as he had tried to leave the city. Commander Bacrot had come in person to share the good news.

At the noise the commander made, the young healer jerked upright, reaching for Imani’s hand to feel her pulse before his eyes were even fully open. Then he groaned, and turned possibly even whiter in the face.

“You’re hurting yourself, boy,” Bishop Larssen admonished him, approaching from behind with Morgulon on his heels.

Not that the old Bishop looked much better.

Morgulon sniffed first Imani, then pressed her cold nose into the young healer’s neck. He barely even moved, his head sinking forwards and his eyes fluttering closed before he caught himself and reached for Imani again.

Nathan just barely caught a faint light in the young healer’s hand, a light that wasn’t actually there. Magical light.

Bishop Larssen shook his head. “It’s amazing, the reserves she has, after four days.”

“That’s why she’s here,” Nathan pointed out.

Morgulon didn't say a word, even though Nathan was fairly sure that she could have spoken to Larssen, had she wanted to. After all, if Pierre had been able to teach Nathan and David to listen in on the werewolves' conversations within a month, someone as experienced as Bishop Larssen should be able to do this same?

Instead, she just turned to the Bishop, licking his hands. It made Larssen sigh.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he said. “It freaks out so many people when they see it.”

“Because her teeth are cursed?” Nathan asked.

“That, and because it’s very hard not to lose the magic while I wash my hands. It just isn’t hygenic.” He stared down at them, then glanced at Imani and the apprentice helping Imani.

“Anyway, if you’ll excuse me,” he added, turning away. “I better put this to good use.”

The elder she-wolf turned to follow him. Nathan hesitated, but then made up his mind.

“Morgulon?” he called after her. He stared down at Imani, unchanged, at least outwardly, even with all the magic the young healer was pouring into her. There was no point in waiting.

He still barely managed to force out the words. But it needed to be done. “Will you bite her?” he whispered. “Please? Before it’s too late.”

Why was he begging for this? Why wasn’t Morgulon offering? Why was she shaking her head?

She half-turned her back on him again, and before Nathan could say anything more, she said: Wait.

“For what?” Nathan grumbled.

For a second, he thought Morgulon wouldn’t answer at all. She looked over her shoulder at where Commander Bacrot was taking reports from the guards spread around the Gallerie, just in case there was another traitor trying something desperate. Nathan was about to prompt her again—now that he could actually sense the werewolves talking, it was all the more frustrating when she didn’t explain herself.

Tomorrow, she said. We'll see then.

Nathan opened his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again. "Fine then."