There’s at least one physician in the Imperial Academy with an interest in rose plague. Several of my tablets are reports made by a physician named Baruva to an Imperial Minister Utana. In each of the reports, he details his findings about the way rose plague can be spread. Much of what he writes, I already know—that the disease is spread by touch and bodily humors, that fire destroys the disease. Beyond the basics though, he goes into painstaking detail about other circumstances—for example that strong sunlight over the course of several days cleans the essence from a surface. Also, there’s a warning to keep the blood of a rosemarked patient from mixing with weak vinegar, as it seems to make the disease essence stronger.

The minister Utana’s name strikes me as familiar, though for a long time I don’t know why. I ask Jesmin if he knows of him and the physician.

“Baruva is still a well-respected scholar in the Imperial Academy,” Jesmin says.

“Is he umbertouched?” I can’t imagine anyone doing this kind of research who is not immune.

Jesmin’s mouth quirks humorlessly. “No, but he’s very careful. And he has many slaves to help him with the more dangerous aspects of his work.”

My stomach flips. There’s no forgetting that I’m in the middle of Ampara. “And what of the minister Utana?”

“Utana fell ill with rose plague a few months ago. One of the hazards of being a minister of health, unfortunately. He was not as careful as Baruva.”

And I realize that’s why Utana’s name seemed so familiar. I’d seen it in Jesmin’s ledgers for the compound. “Is he still alive?”

“He lives with a servant on the east side of the compound. The emperor was quite fond of him, so he provided well for Utana after he fell ill.”

“I see.” A former minister of health, here in the rosemarked compound. I wonder what secrets of the court he was privy to, and if there is some way to meet him.

That night, I’m milking Diadem in my room when I hear unusual sounds from the hallway. I’m fairly sure it’s muffled crying, and it’s coming from Mehtap’s quarters. For a moment, I stand outside her door, uncertain what to do. Though I’ve lived under her roof for some weeks now, I still don’t exactly know how to relate to the commander’s daughter. Perhaps it would be better to let her cry in peace. Still, it doesn’t feel right to walk away.

I knock hesitantly on her door. “Mehtap?”

A shuffling of skirts. A sniffle. “Yes?”

“May I come in?”