Sidra listened to the rain as she stood at the kitchen table, grinding an endless pile of herbs. She had been crushing them for what felt like hours now, until her hands were numb, until every mixture she could create had been made and spread over Torin’s wounds. The one on his shoulder was healing swiftly—the shallow wound stung by fear. But the cut on his forearm, the one that had stolen his voice . . . Sidra couldn’t staunch its slow but steady ooze. And enchanted wounds, while miserable to suffer through, were known to heal twice as fast as mortal wounds with the proper care.

What was she missing? Other than my faith, she thought with exasperation, setting down her pestle. She stared at the array of dried herbs she had spread over her table, the fresh bundles that hung from the timber beams. The honey pot and the bowl of butter and the small jar of oil. She was missing something that would heal his wound and return his voice, and she didn’t know what it was.

Weary, she created a new salve to try and carried the bowl into the bedroom. Torin was asleep, his mouth slightly ajar, his long legs nearly dangling off the foot of the bed. He was shirtless, his chest rising and falling with deep measured breaths, but she knew he would awaken soon. She had drawn eight moon thistle needles from his hands and face; he would be prey to nightmares, despite the stout sleeping tonic she had given him hours ago.

He looked so vulnerable, so young, she thought, gazing at him. Sidra wondered if they would have been friends years ago if their paths had ever crossed, but then she thought no, probably not.

Quietly, she sat beside him on the bed and peeled back the damp linen that covered his wounds, then coated them with her new salve. Feeling the cold trace of magic in his skin, she took out her frustration on the fresh bolt of linen, which she tore into strips. She finished redressing the wounds and watched as the lower cut quickly bled through its bandage. It wasn’t healing but growing worse. And she felt her first tremor of fear.

What am I missing?

It was then that Sidra fully acknowledged the truth. She didn’t know if she would be able to heal Torin. Her faith was still some strange, broken mirror in her chest, the pieces sharp and jagged, reflecting years of her life out of order.

She covered her face with her hands, her breath hitching. She could smell the countless herbs on her palms, secrets that she had always known how to wield, and she let the truth wash over her until it felt like she was drowning in her own skin.

I don’t know how to heal him.