“Are you all right?” Kiva returned, wincing at how much it hurt to talk. She sounded as if she’d swallowed an entire quarry’s worth of luminium dust. Felt like it, too. But still, she was the prison healer, and her focus went beyond her own needs and to the blade sticking out of Naari’s wrist.

Following her gaze, the guard looked down and, showing no emotion, yanked the blade out.

Kiva flinched, even if Naari didn’t. But then she noticed what she’d missed before—there was no blood, not trickling from Naari’s arm, not even on the blade.

Rising, Kiva walked on shaking legs toward the guard and the prisoner. Tilda was out cold, a pinkish bruise blossoming at her temple from Naari’s blow. Kiva wasn’t sure which of them needed her attention first, so she took her lead from the guard, who jerked her head at the prisoner, and together they dragged Tilda back to her pallet.

Kiva wasn’t surprised when Naari reached for the shackles on either side of the mattress, binding both of Tilda’s hands before reaching for the chest strap and tightening it over the woman’s torso. The restraints were attached to all of the infirmary’s beds, including within the quarantine room, but they were rarely used. Despite what Tilda had done to Kiva, she didn’t like seeing the woman bound, repelled by the idea of trapping someone so completely, even if that someone had just tried to strangle her.

“She’s not going anywhere,” Naari said. “Now see to yourself.”

Kiva looked blankly at the guard until Naari prompted, “Your throat. Do you have something that will help?”

Unsure why Naari even cared enough to acknowledge it, Kiva nodded slowly and shuffled back toward the worktable. Her lungs burned with every breath, her knees still trembled, but she forced herself to think and reached for a vial of tallowfruit nectar. Tears sprang to her eyes as she swallowed it back, the citrus tang stinging the whole way down, but the nectar was the best remedy for throat and lung damage. Kiva considered a dose of poppymilk to help with the pain, but she quickly discarded the idea, needing a clear head right now.

“Your turn,” Kiva said, her voice already stronger than before.

“I’m fine,” Naari replied, remaining in position over Tilda’s bed, as if expecting the woman to awaken at any moment and burst out of her restraints.

Kiva didn’t want to argue with the guard. Everything in her knew how dangerous that could be. And yet . . .

“You were stabbed,” she said in a careful tone. “You should let me look at the wound.”

“I’m fine,” Naari repeated, more firmly this time.