He pulls his tunic over his head. “The rest of Sehmar’s seen it. You might as well too.”

“Ampara’s finest,” I read. I force the corners of my lips down. “Let me see if I have anything that might take it off quicker.”

I rummage through my drawers and settle on a root soap that I rub onto a rag. I take a firm grip on his arm and start scrubbing at the woman’s legs. He flexes his bicep at my touch, and I smack his shoulder.

“Stop showing off. I’m just here to clean.”

“Walgash says I might have more luck with the maidens after this. Think he’s right?”

“I don’t know, you’ll have to ask them.”

“You’re a maiden.”

“I’m a healer.”

“Are healers always so hard to impress?”

“You’re not dying of fever, you’re not oozing blood or pus, and you’re not jaundiced. So yes, I’m pleased with how you look today.” Despite my words, my gaze drifts over the rest of him. The past weeks of good food and exercise have filled out and defined the muscles of his chest and shoulders quite nicely. It’s hard to ignore.

He sees me looking, and the edge of his mouth quirks up. I quickly redirect my gaze to a bruise on his stomach. “How did you get that?”

“Spear butt to the ribs.” The pure delight in his smile makes me think he didn’t quite buy my change of subject.

I cluck my tongue. “Seems you have some new injury every time you come in.”

“Ah, but you should see my sparring partners.”

You could almost say we’re flirting. The thought strikes me mid-scrub and I turn away for a moment. I fold up the rag and take it to the water basin for a chance to gather my thoughts. No, it’s just friendly banter. Though it would do no harm to change the topic, or things will get uncomfortable when the other Dineas comes back.

“The soap doesn’t seem to be working,” I tell him. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait until the dye wears off on its own. But shall we start with your treatment for today?”

He pulls his tunic on as I fetch his potion, but just then I hear yells from the window. There’s someone weeping outside—no, weeping is too weak a word. These are harsh, desperate sobs, the sound of someone whose sorrow threatens to strangle them.

I look at Dineas, and then we both run out the door.

We follow the sounds to the compound gates, where a small crowd has already gathered. As we come closer, a rosemarked woman glances at Dineas with distaste. “What are you doing here, umbertouched? Come to gloat over your good fortune?”