Goddessblood grew only in harsh mountain air, so uncommon and strange in Danu that the thrill of studying it shut out Wren’s scruples. Surely, no one would mind—or notice—if she took a specimen. She set her medical bag on the ground and pulled on gloves. She yanked the flower from the half-frozen dirt, and the tuber, like a fat vein, dripped clotted earth from its roots. Just as she stored the sample in her bag, a shadow fell over her.

Wren turned and squinted against the ruthlessly white sky. As her eyes adjusted to the light, the shape of the innkeeper came into focus. He was a round, kind-looking man, but the way he was looking at her now … He looked afraid.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked.

“Nothing! I was just…” Wren’s face burned with embarrassment. While she hadn’t expected to get caught, she should have asked first. She wasn’t representing her homeland well at the moment. So much for diplomacy. “I’m a healer. I study poisons.”

“You can’t study these,” he snapped. “This is my property, not a classroom.”

“I’m sorry. I—” Wren fumbled for words. “I can pay you for it.”

“No, no.” The man pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s alright. You didn’t know. Just go on inside before you catch your death out here.”

Wren commanded her feet to move, but they were rooted to the spot. Why was he growing this? What use did common people have for the deadliest poison in the world? The questions died on her lips when she caught him looking past her, down at the patch of goddessblood.

“Please. Go inside.” His voice was so quiet, Wren almost didn’t hear him. His expression, however, would be burned into her mind. His eyes glassy, his skin ghostly pale, like he’d frozen to death in front of her. “Go.”

Wren sprinted back to the inn, where it felt like a thousand eyes watched her from the shadows. As far as she was concerned, the sooner they got to Lowry’s estate, the better.

CHAPTER EIGHT

By midafternoon, they continued their winding way up the mountain. With nothing but darkness and flurries outside the window, Wren had little to do but wonder what kind of man her patient would be. She was used to dealing with difficult charges—soldiers had a hard time allowing anyone, especially healers, close. It was understandable, on some level. Everyone had heard of healers in high-pressure situations cauterizing the wrong artery. But her patient was a common man in the employment of a nobleman, not a soldier. Maybe he’d be pleasant.