Page 85 of Ravenrose

“There seems to be a lot you don’t know about fae.”

“It came on quick too.” My eyes narrow as he continues. “Symptoms usually don’t show up for a week or two after exposure. That’s part of what makes red fever so dangerous, seeing as the patient is contagious all the while, and no one around them knows until it’s too late. But you—” His head tilts further. “You just held that baby two days ago.”

He knows something happened—suspects the tonic was fake—but he’s fishing, watching me carefully and trying to read my reaction.

I just shrug, throwing up a mask of boredom as I redirect my attention to the fire. He’s right, of course. Fae rarely get sick. And if they do, they certainly aren’t susceptible to human viruses like red fever, but… he doesn’t need to know that.

“Where’s Wyatt?” I ask, deciding to change the subject. Usually Wyatt takes the first watch, alternating with Ayer sometime in the night.

Ayer doesn’t look up as he leans over, adding more logs to the fire. “Wyatt hasn’t had red fever.” He eyes me over the flames. “And I don’t need that shit spreading through my soldiers.”

While red fever is usually fatal for infants and young children, it’s unlikely to kill a relatively healthy adult. It is, however, highly contagious and a positively miserable experience—which, judging by how awful I feel right now, I can personally attest to. If any of his men were to catch it, it would probably slow us down significantly.

I eye Ayer with a flicker of curiosity. “But you’ve had it?”

"Yes.” His answer is clipped and short, and I consider pressing him for more details, suddenly desperate for conversation—any conversation. The last few days on the road have been painfully lonely, and while Ayer is the last person I’d ever seek out for company, the thought of him leaving me alone again sends a fresh pang of anxiety rising through my chest.

But Ayer shows no sign of leaving, settling back on his log, though he stays silent for a long time. I don’t look his way. But I can feel his heavy gaze on my cheek while I stare up at the dim stars overhead.

A moment later, his leather water satchel lands on my stomach, eliciting a cough as the heavy pouch nearly knocks the breath out of me.

“What the⁠—”

“Drink,” he orders, his voice firm.

I frown at the water and then at him. My throat is burning, but something in me balks at following Ayer’s orders.

“Don’t be stupid.”

I glare at him and attempt to lift my head—and the satchel—at the same time. I fail miserably at both.

Stars. What was I thinking, leaving myself vulnerable like this?

An image of baby Josi’s red, flushed cheeks, and Nadia’s tear-stained ones, enters my mind, reminding me exactly what I was thinking.

I had never healed a sickness before, and admittedly, I didn’t know what would happen. Whenever I healed a wound or an injury in the past, I needed to take it onto myself either completely—or share it, lessening the severity of the wound for both me and the patient.

And then, of course, Ayer’s rune had to factor into it as well. The rune blocks magic from leaving me, but as I just learned, it doesn’t stop me from taking it in.

Ayer sighs audibly, coming closer and picking the satchel up off my stomach before crouching down beside me once again.

“Come here.” His fingers slide into my hair, supporting my head as he gently lifts, but I fight him, feebly trying to push his hands away, not wanting or needing any more of his help.

“Rowan,” he growls, and I go absolutely still, forgetting for a moment that I told him my name.

We enter a silent standoff. Both of us staring each other down. My mouth is pressed firmly shut, his water satchel open and tilted, like he’s debating whether or not to just waterboard me with it.

“You’re burning up,” he reminds me, and my body instantly weakens as if remembering too.

He seizes the opportunity, pushing the satchel closer and pressing it to my lips. His brows raise, as if to say open, but he refrains from actually giving me the order. With a deep sigh, I open my mouth, allowing him to trickle in some liquid..

Light, I needed that, I think when the cool water alleviates the worst of the burning in my throat.

Ayer tilts the satchel a little further and I drink, desperate for more. He angles it slowly, controlled, so I don’t choke.

He’s so close. I steal the opportunity to study him, my eyes pulling to the scar I hadn’t quite noticed before, concealed by war paint and dirt.

The silvery lines slash down from his forehead, right through his brow before trailing down his right cheek. The blow would have taken his eye, if not for those high cheekbones of his. Ayer’s eyes darken as he catches me looking at it. Those steel-gray eyes with their shadowed edges bore into me, the tiny flecks of silver glinting in the flickering firelight.