It’s fascinating, seeing what parts of his knowledge have survived my potion. He’s remembered nothing about himself thus far, which is a relief. But his understanding of the world is also haphazard. He knows bits and pieces, but he needs help stitching them together.

“You’re right,” I tell him. “Money and skilled workers are hard to come by in here, so the residents must make do with what they have. Once you’re well enough to leave this place, you’ll see far nicer cities.”

It’s quiet at the hospital today. One other patient is sleeping off a hangover in the corner, but other than that it’s just the two of us in this room. The sheets on Dineas’s bed are still mussed from the night before, and I straighten them. “Can you sit down?” I ask him. “I need to take a look at you.”

He’s familiar with the routine by now. I place my hand on his forehead, check his pulse, and examine his inner eyelids.

“Zivah?”

“What is it?” I cross to my herb table and close all the jars.

He hesitates for another moment. “You’re a healer here, like Jesmin?”

I peer over my shoulder with an amused smile. “That, at least, I expect you to know by now.”

But he doesn’t return my smile. “But you have…” He gestures toward me, and his eyes go to my arms. I follow his worried gaze to the red splotches that decorate my skin. Of course he would notice.

I turn my face away from him. The truth of my illness is a familiar ache in my gut, but to my surprise, I find my biggest worry is how it will affect Dineas. He’s so childlike in this state. I feel like I’m taking away his innocence.

“I’m a healer,” I say carefully. “But I’m also a patient.”

He nods slowly. “You told me that only patients whose marks turn brown will survive the plague.”

I give myself time to take one breath before answering. “You were very fortunate, Dineas, to be able to beat the disease. I was not.”

His eyes cloud over at this. “I’m sorry,” he says.

I give him a small smile. “It’s all right,” I say. “I’ve had time to grow used to it.” But the words sound empty, even to me.

I come home to the sound of harp music. It’s beautiful—delicate and plaintive—yet I see no sign of instrument or player in the sitting room. The sound seems to be coming from upstairs, and I follow it until I arrive at Mehtap’s open door.