The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(29)

“I’m here,” Kiva told her, placing a calming hand on her shoulder. “I’ll get you some water.”

Kiva’s heart was pounding in her ears as she rushed to collect a tumbler and dunked it into a pail of fresh water. Vaguely, she noted that a guard was stationed at the door to the infirmary, someone she didn’t recognize. The armed man was peering curiously toward Tilda, no doubt listening closely.

Discomforted by the thought that he’d been watching them both sleep, Kiva avoided eye contact with him and hurried back to her charge, gently raising the ill woman’s head and holding the tumbler to her lips.

Tilda drank eagerly enough that some of the water trickled down her chin, and once she was finished, Kiva dabbed it dry.

“Thaaaan— Thaaaaaaaannnk—”

“You’re welcome,” Kiva said, swallowing a lump in her throat.

Only one full day remained before the first Ordeal, and despite her fever having broken earlier that week, there had been little improvement in Tilda’s condition. Seeing her finally try to communicate now . . . Kiva had to swallow again, a wave of emotion rising up within her.

She wasn’t supposed to become attached to her patients. That was the first rule of being the prison healer. Any healer, for that matter. But especially one at Zalindov. And yet, this woman . . . Kiva couldn’t help feeling connected to her.

Don’t let her die.

“Do you know where you are?” Kiva asked quietly, dragging over a stool and sitting beside Tilda’s bed. She wasn’t sure if the woman understood her words, but she had to at least try. Even with the guard listening in and likely reporting everything back to the Warden. She would just have to be careful. Both of them would have to be careful.

“Zallll— Zaaaaaalllll—”

“Zalindov, that’s right,” Kiva said encouragingly. She noted that Tilda was having trouble with her speech, adding it to the list of symptoms that might help her find a cause of the illness. An idea came to her, and she said, “I’ll be right back.”

Jumping up, Kiva hurried across to her supplies and pulled out a pot of gumwort that Tipp had already ground into a paste. The sludgy brown color was unappealing, but it smelled like fresh herbs and aided with relaxation and clarity.

Hoping it would loosen Tilda’s words, Kiva returned to her side and asked her to open her mouth. The woman hesitated, and Kiva feared she would resist—possibly even try to fight her around the restraints—but after a beat, Tilda did as asked, and Kiva smeared some of the gumwort onto her tongue.

After giving the paste enough time to take effect, Kiva asked, “Can you tell me your name?”

The woman’s lips opened and closed before she finally said, “Tilda. I’m . . . Tilda.” Her throat bobbed, as if she was trying to swallow but the effort pained her. “Where . . . am . . . I?”

A breath whooshed out of Kiva, even while her heart sank. Hearing Tilda say her own name made Kiva feel like she was finally getting somewhere, at least until Tilda questioned where she was—right after having already answered that herself.

“You’re in Zalindov, remember?” Kiva asked slowly.

The woman blinked sightlessly up toward the ceiling. “Zalindov? Yes. Yes . . . where?”

Kiva’s heart continued to shrivel. “You arrived ten days ago,” she shared, unsure what else to say. Tilda gave a small, surprised jerk. “You’ve been very sick. I’m—I’m trying to make you better.”

“Why?”

One sharp word, and Kiva found she didn’t know how to answer. There were so many reasons, most of which she couldn’t say. Especially with the guard listening in.

Don’t let her die.

“Because I’m— Because you’re— Because we’re—”

“The . . . Trials,” Tilda interrupted, her voice beginning to sound weaker again. “My . . . sentence. Why—” She inhaled a rattling breath, and with visible effort, continued, “Why keep me . . . alive . . . only so . . . I can . . . die?”

The broken words had Kiva fisting her hands in her lap, her nails digging into her flesh. Of all the things for Tilda to know, to remember . . . why did she have to ask about the Trials? What was Kiva to say? Too many answers sprang to her mind.

Because it’s my job.

Because the Warden ordered me to.

Because my sister wrote me a note.

Because Cresta will kill Tipp if I don’t.

Because I won’t be able to live with myself if—

“Where . . . am . . . I?” Tilda asked again, interrupting Kiva’s thoughts.

Slumping in on herself, Kiva was just about to repeat that Tilda was in Zalindov, but then she paused, wondering if perhaps that wasn’t what Tilda was really asking. With a quick look at the guard, Kiva weighed her words and, seeing no harm in it, answered, “You’re in the infirmary. Zalindov’s infirmary.”

A moment of silence fell, until Tilda asked, her voice a mere whisper now, “Who . . . are . . . you?”

With another quick look at the guard, Kiva offered the most honest reply that she dared. “Someone who wants you to survive this—all of this.” She reached out and, impulsively, gave Tilda’s hand a squeeze before coming to her senses and releasing her quickly. “You should rest. We can talk again tomorrow.”