Late in the afternoon, Zivah visits me again. Even in these past few hours, her gentle presence has become a touchstone. I remember glimpses of her during my delirium…wiping my forehead, holding water to my lips…I even remember speaking to her. There are confusing images of a cottage in a wood.

“You really don’t know your name?” she asks.

I shake my head. I can’t rid myself of the feeling that I’m letting her down.

Zivah folds her hands in her lap. “When you were brought in, you wore a bracelet,” she says. “I threw it in the fire along with the rest of your clothing, but I remember seeing the name Dineas on it. Does that sound familiar?”

Now that she says it, it does feel right. “I suppose that’s as good a name as any.”

She nods, pleased, and her smile makes me feel warm.

“Good,” she says. “That’s what we will call you.”

Chapter Eighteen

Dineas recovers quickly. This shouldn’t surprise me, since I’m the one who designed his illness. But the rhythms of illness and recovery are imprinted in my healer’s instincts, and even though I know that he doesn’t actually have the rose plague, I’m still surprised every time I find him healthier than expected. Day by day, he gains strength.

We move him to a smaller room in the hospital. After a few days, he’s out of bed whenever I come to see him, either walking around or at the window staring at the ramshackle houses beyond. He’s eager to be outside, but I’m not quite ready to let him. Real illness or feigned, his body is still weak. I’m firm about this, and he seems to accept my authority.

He’s hungry for human interaction, anything that will help him feel less lost in this world he no longer remembers. His face lights up whenever I enter the room. It’s strange to me the first few times I see it. The old Dineas would never have shown such happiness at the sight of me, but the new Dineas’s smile is infectious, and his eyes are warm.

Today when I check on him, he’s at the window. “Zivah,” he says, and breaks into a grin.

“What are you looking at?”

I bring his herbs to him, and he keeps his gaze on the window as he sips. Outside, two women are yelling at an old man. It’s too far for us to hear what’s being said, though their anger is easy enough to detect. After a while, the man starts yelling back. A crowd gathers.

Dineas frowns. “This city outside. It’s poor, isn’t it? Not every city is this broken-down.”