A tiny groan—the most I can muster right now—escapes my lips. I do my best to stand, but another spasm hits me and I collapse again. And on the heels of the spasm, as predictable as the plague’s steady march, comes the despair. Another potion, another failure. I don’t know how much longer I can keep on hoping.

Light footsteps come up behind me.

“Zivah!” I can imagine the shock on Leora’s face. “What—”

“Stay back!” My throat is raw, but for this, I manage to shout. Rose plague travels through touch and through the bodily humors, and Leora forgets caution when she’s upset.

Behind me, her footsteps stop, and I count it a small blessing. “Stay back,” I repeat, more quietly now. “I’m all right. I promise.”

I’m hardly convincing, doubled over as I am. If a vomiting fit is bad when I’m alone, it’s ten times worse when I have an audience, especially when I know the audience will be sorely disappointed in me.

Finally the fit passes. Everything aches, and I’m tempted to lie down and never get up again. When I finally turn around, Leora looks just as stricken as I’d expected.

She shakes her head. “Zivah, I would give my own life if I knew it would cure you, but are you sure these experiments are safe?”

“They are,” I lie. “The potion just upset my stomach, that’s all.”

Leora simply looks at me, and I can see her concern warring with her desperate wish to believe me. It’s maddening. I know so much of herb lore. I’ve memorized the makings of hundreds of drafts and invented dozens of others. But despite my years of study, despite the skill that everyone tells me I have, I cannot cure myself.

Truth is, Leora doesn’t even know the true extent of my efforts, how I stay up every night reading scrolls by candlelight, searching for some secret that will scrub these marks from my skin. For every time that Leora or Kaylah found me ill from my experiments, there are five more where I’ve suffered alone. Perhaps my efforts are futile, but what else can I do when the alternative is to quietly accept my death?

I collect my feet under me. With a firm grip on the bamboo frame of my cottage, I pull myself to standing. “It’s not your normal time to visit.”

I can see Leora trying to decide whether to let me change the subject. “I finished my bridal veil.” She stops, and suddenly looks unsure. “I thought you might like to see it.”

I brighten. Leora’s been working on her veil for months. “Of course. Take it to the sitting area.”