Spending so much time with Dineas has made me think about the experiences that make us what we are. What would any of us be like without our past? If I could no longer remember my years growing up with you and Alia, if my training as a healer was erased, would I still be me? If I started a new life, made new friends, fell in love, decided to apprentice in farming instead of healing, which version of me would be real? Would it matter?

I put down my pen and think of Dineas this morning, the one who chased me down and wouldn’t let me go until he knew why I was upset. The one who was frustrated that he couldn’t take away my pain. And I think of the other Dineas, the one who carries a shadow with him, whose remarks always have a caustic edge.

And I wonder.

Jesmin’s medical texts give me numerous new ideas for cures. Unfortunately, none of them are any more effective than the attempts I’d made in Dara, and their side effects are just as unpleasant. Several times, I get sick at the hospital and have to duck into a back room to lie down or run out the back to be ill.

I think I’ve kept my experiments secret, until one day Jesmin walks past me as I’m reading and looks pointedly at my latest attempt—a poultice-soaked bandage that I’ve wrapped around my arm.

“There are several schools of thought regarding self-experimentation,” he says. “Some say it is the noblest of endeavors. Others say it’s brash, foolhardy, and a good way to kill yourself.” The mildness of his voice makes it hard to know which particular school Jesmin subscribes to, though I suspect it’s the latter.

“I was reading about Baruva’s theory of rose plague settling in the skin,” I say. “I thought the right poultice might draw it out. It seemed harmless enough.” At least I’m not vomiting up my breakfast.

Jesmin lifts the corner of my bandage to reveal angry red streaks on my skin, darker and bolder than my rosemarks. “Are you sure?”

As if on cue, my skin starts to itch and burn. I exhale my frustration and retreat to the water basin. The bandage comes off in pieces, and the poultice leaves a chalky residue on my skin. The itch is maddening, and I have to fight the urge to scratch as I rinse off. Finally, everything’s clean, and I smear some spineleaf sap on my abused skin. As a cool numbness spreads over my arm, I breathe out one more time. At least by now, I’ve had so many failures that I no longer feel any great disappointment.