Arista, Hadrian, and Royce waited silently just outside the entrance to the bedroom until the doctor finished. “I’ve taken the bandages off him,” Dr. Gerand said. He was an elderly man with white hair, a hooknose, and bushy eyebrows that managed to look sad even when he smiled. “He’s much better today. A whipping like he took …” He paused, unsure how to explain. “Well, you saw what it did to the poor lady that hung alongside him. He should have died, but he’s young. He’ll bounce back once he wakes up and starts eating. Of course, his back will be scarred for life and he’ll never be as strong as he was—too much damage. The only concern I have is noxious humors causing an imbalance in his body, but honestly, that doesn’t look like it’ll be a problem. Like I said, the boy is young and strong. Let him continue to rest and he should be fine.”

They followed the doctor downstairs, escorting him to the front door of the Dunlaps’ home, where he bid them good night.

Pausing in the doorway, he looked back. “Emery is a good lad. He was my son’s best friend. James was taken into the imperial army and died in some battle up north.” He glanced at the floor. “Watching Emery on that post was like losing him all over again. Whatever happens now, I just wanted to say thank you.” With that, the doctor left.

Arista had seen the insides of more commoners’ homes over the past week than she had in her entire life. After visiting with the Bakers of Hintindar, she had assumed all families lived in identical houses, but the Dunlaps’ home was nothing like the Bakers’. This one was two stories tall, with a solid wooden floor on both levels. The upper story created a thick-beamed ceiling to the lower one. While still modest and a bit cramped, it showed touches of care and a dash of prosperity, which Hintindar lacked. The walls were painted and decorated with pretty designs of stars and flowers, and the wood surfaces were buffed and stained. Knickknacks of glazed pottery and wood carvings lined shelves above the fireplace. Unlike Dunstan and Arbor’s sparse home, the Dunlaps’ house had a lot of furniture. Wooden chairs with straw seats circled the table. Another pair bookended a spinning wheel surrounded by several wicker baskets. Little tables held vases of flowers, and on the wall hung a cabinet with small doors and knobs. Kept neat, clean, and orderly, it was a house loved by a woman whose husband had been a good provider, but had rarely been home.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything else?” Mrs. Dunlap asked while clearing the dinner plates. She was an old, plump woman who always wore an apron and a matching white scarf and had a habit of wringing her wrinkled hands.

“We’re fine,” Arista told her. “And thank you again for letting us use your home.”