The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(84)

“Nothing I can recall, sweets,” Olisha said.

Kiva frowned. “And he hasn’t been back all day? You’re sure?”

Olisha looked uncertain, like she was second-guessing herself. “I don’t think so.” She looked toward the rat pen, as if the answers lay with the vermin.

“You coming, Lish?” Nergal interrupted. “?’S nearly dinner time.”

Olisha smacked her lips together, acting like she hadn’t eaten in three years, and glanced quickly at Kiva, seeking permission to leave.

Barely refraining from rolling her eyes, Kiva said, “Go. I won’t need you during the day tomorrow, but I will on Thursday.”

“See you then,” Olisha said, before hurrying after Nergal, who had never paid any heed to Kiva’s position of authority over him. She was a prisoner, just as he was—that was all he saw when he looked at her.

Over the last few weeks, neither Olisha nor Nergal had asked a single question about the sickness that was spreading, or the research Kiva was doing. They hadn’t even batted an eyelash upon first seeing the rat pen, as if she frequently conducted experiments in the middle of the infirmary. Perhaps it was because they spent barely any time in the quarantine room, so they didn’t understand the severity of what was happening; perhaps they didn’t realize how rapidly it was spreading, how many were dying. Or perhaps they simply didn’t care, and therefore didn’t want to be kept informed. Either way, Kiva wasn’t sure if she was relieved not to have to answer their questions at the end of each day or if she was annoyed that they weren’t worried enough to offer more help.

Placing her hands on her hips, Kiva looked around the infirmary and wondered aloud, “Tipp, where are you?”

With only Tilda in the room, no answer came, so Kiva shrugged and began organizing her samples, before feeding them to the rats. She then noticed that she was nearly out of Augury Elixir, so after force-feeding Tilda some broth and checking on the quarantined patients, she followed Mot’s instructions to brew a fresh potion. Most of the ingredients were already on her workbench, but the everberries and snowblossoms needed to be picked fresh from the garden, so Kiva gave the elixir a good stir and was just about to head outside to collect them when Jaren and Naari walked through the infirmary door.

“Perfect timing,” Kiva said. “Can one of you please stir this?”

She held out the ladle to Jaren when he reached her first. He was covered in tunnel dust as usual, but the bruises and scrapes on his face from his altercation with Cresta’s lackeys had healed, leaving just the thin crescent-shaped scar over his left eye from the day he’d arrived at Zalindov.

“Back in a second,” she said, pointing to the door leading to the medicinal garden.

“What, no ‘Hi, how was your day?’” he returned, sending her a tired but still teasing grin.

“I’d ask if I cared,” Kiva threw over her shoulder as she walked away, not allowing him to see her smile.

Naari caught it, though, her amber eyes sparkling as she took the ladle from Jaren and told him, “Why don’t you help Kiva with . . . whatever she’s doing.”

Everworld help me, Kiva thought at Naari’s lack of subtlety. Whatever might be going on between the guard and Jaren, it clearly wasn’t stopping her from playing matchmaker. Maybe she hadn’t lied about her relationship with him, after all.

“I’m good,” Kiva called back to them.

“I don’t mind helping,” Jaren said, and she heard his footsteps following her. “Speaking of help, where’s Tipp?”

Kiva waited for Jaren by the door, then opened it for the both of them. “Olisha said he took off this morning and didn’t come back. I’m trying not to worry, but . . .” She plucked at the fraying edge of her tunic. “It’s not like him, you know?”

“Have you checked with Mot?” Jaren asked. “He might be with him in the morgue again.” His eyes lit as he added, “Or playing another prank on him.”

“Gods, I hope not,” Kiva groaned, walking out into the brisk night air and rubbing her arms against the chill, the tall gabbergrass rising up around them. “They’re finally on good terms after the last one.”

“You have to admit, the kid has an imagination,” Jaren said, chuckling.

“He certainly does,” Kiva agreed. Quietly, she added, “He was meant for more than this. The world needs people like him out there in it, shining light into the dark places. He’s wasted in here.”

“He won’t be here forever,” Jaren replied, just as quietly. “Neither will you.”

Kiva turned to him, the moonlight shining down and accentuating his strong features. She’d never held much of an interest in art, but looking at him now, her fingers itched for some paint, for some charcoal, for anything that could capture his near-perfect angles. She wondered if he knew how appealing he was, wondered if, before Zalindov, he’d used his looks to his advantage. Perhaps that was what had led him here, an illicit liaison or a secret affair. A courtier’s daughter, a guard’s sister, a nobleman’s wife—any of them could have cost him his freedom. But Kiva didn’t think that was it. While Jaren was roguishly charming, she doubted he had an unfaithful bone in his body.

“I hope you’re right,” Kiva said, looking away from him and down at the wallowroot saplings near her feet.