Even when he’d stayed back late with the quarantined patients, he’d always returned to their cell block. Every night, no matter how exhausted he was, he always found the energy to teach Kiva everything he knew about healing, reminding her how important it was to learn, to understand. Night after night, he would share his years of knowledge, testing her with imaginary patients and their ailments. Only when they were too tired to continue would he tuck her into bed and tell her a story, usually the same one about how he met her mother, knowing how much it soothed her.

They were some of the worst memories Kiva had.

They were also some of the best.

But that night, when he didn’t return, Kiva knew.

He would never again teach her his craft, never again tell her a story.

Wiping her hand across her eyes, Kiva racked her brain for anything he might have told her back then, anything that could offer a hint as to whether the sickness now plaguing the prison was the same as the one from nine years ago. Had her father tried to find the source, like she was? Had he figured out what had caused it, or how to treat it? Or had he merely sought to keep his patients as comfortable as possible until they met their ends? Until he met his end?

Kiva couldn’t remember how long the sickness had lasted. She’d been so lost in her grief after his death that time had ceased to mean anything. But . . . she remembered her eighth birthday, because it was the first time she’d stepped back inside the infirmary after her father had died, after he’d left her. There was a new prison healer in charge—Kiva’s predecessor, whom she started working under two years later, and whose position she adopted another two years after that.

No one had been sick by the time her birthday arrived, Kiva remembered, the stomach illness having passed. She knew, because she’d had to hunt down the healer in the empty quarantine room, where she’d found him mixing an illicit batch of angeldust in the far corner. He’d jumped upon her arrival, and demanded to know why she was there. She’d told him—one of the prisoners in the workroom had been beaten by a guard and was close to death.

The healer hadn’t cared. He’d pulled a vial of poppymilk from his tunic and said to give it to the victim, then told Kiva to leave him alone.

On her way out of the infirmary, she’d visited the garden.

With tears pouring down her face as she’d said her silent, final goodbye, she’d made her decision, plucking up some aloeweed, then pilfering some ballico sap and spare linens from the infirmary on her way out.

She’d treated the beaten prisoner herself, just as her father would have done.