“Don’t worry,” Phaut says. “She’s in good hands. I’ve heard that Kazan healers are extraordinary. It’s only the prejudices between the shamans and the shadowblessed that keep them from sharing their knowledge.”

I rub my temples. “What’s the difference between a light stitcher and a shadowblessed healer?”

She closes her book and considers an answer. “A light stitcher repairs the soul energy of a person. The body heals once a person’s soul energy is in balance. But a shadowblessed healer works differently. They’re called flesh workers, which can be a little intimidating.”

My stomach turns. I’d left Saengo alone in a room with someone whose craft was called flesh worker?

“They repair the body—the blood and bone. They can keep the physical symptoms of the rot at bay to slow the spread of the disease.”

I suspect that a flesh worker’s ability to manipulate blood and bone could be used in other, less beneficial ways. “You’ve seen this done before?”

She nods. “A small fox familiar once found its way into Spinner’s End. It’d been hiding among Lord Ronin’s supplies.”

“How long did the fox live?”

She looks down, and I brace for her answer. “Almost two weeks.”

When I release my breath, it comes out thin and uneven. I feel like I’ve been stabbed in the gut. I half expect to find myself bleeding out all over the sofa. The whole world goes quiet until all that remains is the pounding of my heart and the familiar warmth of Saengo’s candle. It’s flickering, fearful but strong.

When I can’t stand it any longer, I shove to my feet. She’s been in there long enough. Just as Phaut jumps up to block my path, the bedroom door swings open.

The shadowblessed healer steps out. She’s a short woman with dark gray skin. Her white hair is pulled up into a braided bun at the crown of her head. She wears a simple but finely made tunic along with the crimson flame of the Fireborn Queens pinned beneath her collar.

“I’ll need to see her every evening to repeat the treatment,” the woman says.

I thank her and then rush past into the bedroom. Saengo sits up in bed, sipping water. Neither of us speak, but she scoots over and lifts the edge of the blanket.

I slide in beside her. We lie down, face to face and hands clasped the way we used to when we were children in the Prince’s Company. The officits of the Prince’s Company hadn’t been as strict about our sleeping arrangements, especially for the heir of a powerful House. It took a long time for Saengo to grow accustomed to the austere barracks. Sharing a bed had helped her homesickness.