Page 152 of Crown of the Courtesan

As I inhale deeply, I notice the aroma of baking bread from the potbelly stove and the drying flower bunches hanging from the rafters. A simple table sits in the corner, topped by a washbasin and pitcher, while pots of colorful salves, powders, and dried herbs line the rustic shelves.

The cot’s feather mattress shifts as I grunt and sit up. Bedspreads woven from lambswool in varying earthy hues cover me, and I’m wearing a thick, long-sleeved nightgown that buttons down the front. Even my hair is clean, brushed, and neatly coiled around my circlet—neither too loose nor too tight—as I pat and examine myself. A clear, sticky substance is smeared across my hand and wrist, the crimson lines glistening under the strange-smelling ointment. My heart drops as my arm begins to ache.

The witch-healer’s cottage.

Outside, tense voices rumble in Ashland’s and Lir’s familiar deep tones. A hesitant smile spreads across my lips. At least they kept their word.

I try to stand, but my body moves sluggishly, so I half-fall, half-sit back down in a wave of dizziness.

The front door creaks open, and a stout, pepper-haired woman wearing a smock enters. She surveys me with a keen silver eye. “Awake at last, m’lady?” Light shimmers on the many earrings lining the cartilage of her ear and on her hoop nose ring. At first glance, she seems no-nonsense, but there’s a kindness in the way her eyes crinkle.

I nod slowly, my throat dry and itchy. Knowing what I need before I can ask, she hands me a wooden cup filled with basil water.

The door creaks open again, and the two men enter. They quickly overtake the cozy atmosphere with their large bodies and weapons hanging at their sides. There’s a noticeable tension rippling between them.

“The sleeping queen awakens,” Ashland remarks with a cocked eyebrow, watching me as he leans on the wall near the window.

Before anything more can be said, I ask, “Rett—how is he?” It doesn’t make sense to worry about his well-being, but I’m sick of the suffering. I don’t care if that makes me weak.

Both of their faces turn uneasy. Lir steps forward. “The prince remains aboard the ship.”

My stomach twists. “He hasn’t recovered?”

“He’s developed blood fever,” Lir says gently. “The witch-healers are doing all they can, but he remains delirious.”

“Didn’t you give him an elixir?”

“No, love. It wasn’t made for his kind, and it could easily act as a poison with his orc blood.”

“He’s half-human, though! It might’ve worked. Why didn’t you at least try?”

Lir’s tone is firm. “There was no guarantee, and at least this way, he has a fighting chance.”

A fresh wave of guilt casts a net over me.

Ashland seems to read my thoughts and steps closer. “He brought it upon himself.” Despite his callous remarks, he frowns, peering out the window at the glittering ocean barely visible through the thick band of ivory trees.

I look down at my hands. Rett’s dried blood is still ever so slightly crusted beneath my broken nails. “I need to see him.”

Lir squeezes my shoulder and urges, “One thing at a time. We haven’t cured you yet.” A muted throb aches from my fingertips through my arm.

“Don’t just stand there,” chastises the witch-healer as she bustles between the two men. “Let me get to the patient!” They part toward the outer rim of the small cottage while she examines my injured appendage, clucking her tongue at the angry crimson swirls.

“This will take the bite out of the pain.” She scoops more of the sticky, clear salve with a wooden tool, spreading and reapplying it over my markings. “But it’s only a temporary relief. The Bonding Curse is too powerful. The dark magic now running through your veins can and will adapt to any and all medicines. There’s a reason why it’s known as a curse to those wise enough to call it what it is.”

“How long do I have?” I whisper, terrified to learn the answer.

“By nightfall⁠—”

Ashland interjects, “That soon?”

“A Replacement of Vows is the only thing that will cure the spread. It demands a true Bonded Matrimony in exchange, or the original pair will go insane and die.” Her tone softens. “There’s no getting around it, m’lady. You must marry someone willing to bond to you by sunset, or you won’t make it through the night.”

Trembling and unsure of the time, I ask, “When does the sun set?”

“In three hours⁠—”

“Everyone, leave,” Ashland orders. The healer gives him a little bow.