As Leora disappears around the corner, I hobble to the water basin to rinse out my mouth. Afterward, I lean against it, staring at the mottled red patterns on my hands. It’s been long enough now that I’m no longer surprised to see the rosemarks on my skin. I can feel them though, a heaviness in my limbs that follows me throughout the day. The scrolls tell me it’s not a common symptom of the disease, but then, the scrolls have never been ill.

“Goddess,” I whisper, “I could serve you so much better if you granted me a cure.” It’s a prayer I’ve uttered many times, and I’m ashamed at the desperation in my voice. As always, I get no response.

By the time I walk on shaky legs to the front of my house, Leora is settled under the awning where I entertain guests, seated in one of the four chairs I never touch. She unfolds her veil and lets it flutter in the breeze. My breath catches as I come closer. As a journeywoman seamstress, Leora’s stitchwork has always been fine, but she’s poured her heart into this one. Embroidered into the green headdress are paired butterflies, symbols of love. Their iridescent wings seem to flap with every ripple of the silk. Interwoven between the butterflies are vines, flowers, and dazzling patterns. My fingers itch to touch the fine stitches, but I grab the hem of my tunic instead.

“It’s beautiful.”

She gives a modest smile. “Thank you. I’m working on Alia’s headdress now.”

It’s a sister’s duty to carry incense ahead of the bride and make the paths fragrant for her arrival. My rosemarks keep me from taking part in the celebrations, although my younger sister has promised to carry for both of us. It should be a beautiful ceremony, and Leora a radiant bride.

Suddenly, I don’t want to talk about the wedding anymore.

I stand. “I should tend to my creatures. Come with me?”

I start walking before Leora can reply, though I hear her follow several steps behind me. We used to walk hand in hand, but now the rule is five paces apart.

A great many things have changed since I fell ill. Treating patients is out of the question, of course. A rosemarked healer makes about as much sense as a tone-deaf minstrel. I’ve had to move to a house away from the village, and my only duty these days is to raise poisonous creatures and harvest venom for potions. Doron thinks the venoms are powerful enough to resist the rose plague essence, and there are so few trained healers that we can’t afford to waste my skills. It’s not a horrible existence, and I know things could have been much worse. In Central Ampara, I would have been quarantined outside the city and left to die.