Amaris dipped her finger into the bottle and watched her pale finger come up with a sticky, brown liquid. It matched the color of the bottle. She felt along her face for the gash, smearing the tonic into her cut.

She thought of the times she or her peers had fallen ill in the orphanage and how Matron Flora had busied herself with the small, brown bottles, feeding the orphans spoonfuls of the liquid.

“Do I drink what’s left?”

He nodded. “That you do. It helps knit your insides and outsides.”

“It’s magic?”

He considered that, saying, “It’s an old magic. Tonics like that are one of the first inventions that healers and manufacturers came together to create. Tonics have been around since…well…long before the lines between kingdoms were drawn.”

She eyed the bottle, asking, “When was that?”

He raised a brow. “What do you know of history?”

She shook her head.

“Geography?”

Feeling a little defensive, she answered, “I know how to read and write. I’ve memorized prayers, practiced court decorum, and know all about the royal family. I’m not stupid.”

“Stupidity and ignorance are not one and the same. Drink up.”

Amaris didn’t understand half of what he’d said. She didn’t know what he’d meant by “old magic.” Regardless, she drank half of the bottle. She dipped her finger into the bottle once more to wet it with the brown, honey-stick liquid as she attempted to rub the tonic over the gashes on her face and across her chest with what remained, wincing against the sting.

She stared intently into the crackling flames while the man finished cooking the rabbit. He tore into it, offering her half. She chewed on it sullenly, thinking of Nox and the meal of pale cheese and Matron Mable’s bread that her friend was sure to be eating somewhere in the forest. Had they run in the same direction? How far would Nox be from Farleigh by now? That was, of course, unless she’d gone back inside to live amongst the matrons. Amaris hadn’t considered the possibility that Nox might want to stay in the orphanage without her.

The stranger smothered the fire and began to untether the horse.

“Shall we?”

“We’re leaving?”

“Like I said, I have a bishop to meet with.”

She stood and considered the scarred, fatherly assassin from a ways off. He’d fed her, offered her healing tonics, allowed her silence, and most importantly, he’d aided her escape from a life of unimaginable horrors. She hadn’t even asked him who he was.

Amaris felt a stab of shame at her ingratitude as she asked, “What’s your name?”

He didn’t look up from his horse, continuing to repack the satchel and prepare for departure.

“Odrin.”

It was a nice name. A friendly name. She hoped he was kind.

“I’m Amaris.”