The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(94)

Naari and Tipp both frowned with confusion, but Kiva had to breathe deeply to hold in the tears that were no longer just prickling her nose, but stinging her eyes. This woman, this poor, sick woman . . . Kiva didn’t know how long she had left. Didn’t know what she could do to help her.

“Your . . . father . . . Kiva,” Tilda said, raising a weak, trembling hand toward her. “And . . . the thief. Tell me . . . the story.”

Kiva swallowed, then swallowed again. It was painful, like glass working its way down her esophagus. Her own fingers shook as she took Tilda’s offered hand gently in her own, knowing it was what the woman wanted.

“What’s she talking about?” Naari asked.

Finally forcing words through her lips, Kiva said, “I told her a story, the day before the fire Ordeal. She wasn’t sleeping well—restless, groaning. I thought it might help.”

“I like s-stories,” Tipp said eagerly. “Will you t-tell it again?”

Kiva looked at the young boy and his open expression, to Naari, who appeared curious but no longer wary, and then to Tilda, who seemed near to falling back to sleep, where Kiva knew the delirium would overcome her again. Perhaps it was for the best that the Rebel Queen was unable to communicate properly, perhaps even for the best that she was ill and confined to the infirmary. Not only was she protected from any anti-rebel inmates who wished her harm, but she also couldn’t be sent to the Abyss and interrogated. Until Kiva finished the Trials, Tilda remained a prisoner, her life at risk as long as she was inside Zalindov. There was no sign that her followers were coming for her a second time. It was Kiva’s success or failure that would mean Tilda’s execution or release. And until either outcome occurred, the sick woman was in danger, all her rebellious knowledge trapped within her mind. Maybe that was why she was still so unwell—because on a subconscious level, she knew what would happen if they tried to pry those secrets from her. Maybe that was why she wanted to die, to protect her plans to take back the kingdom, and to protect all those she cared about.

But . . . Kiva also had people she cared about. And for better or worse, Tilda was one of those people. As long as Kiva remained alive, she was determined to make sure Tilda did, too.

Don’t let her die.

Kiva didn’t need the reminder from the note anymore.

She never had.

And as she pulled up a stool beside Tipp and held tight to Tilda’s hand, as she began to retell the tale of how her father met her mother, she hoped that if Tilda had comprehended the story when Kiva had first shared it, then she would have also heard Kiva’s pleas for her to remember her own loved ones. To remember that they needed her to stay alive, and to fight.



* * *





“You really c-care about her, don’t you?” Tipp asked later that night, when Kiva was feeding yet more samples to the rats. The young boy was trying to help, but was more of a hindrance than anything, preferring to play with the vermin than settle them.

“About who?” Kiva asked, distracted.

“Tilda,” Tipp said. “I saw the w-way you looked at her today when you were t-telling your story. That was great, b-by the way. You never talk a-about your parents.”

“There’s not much to tell,” Kiva said, trying for a dismissive tone, if only to ease the ache she felt whenever she thought of the mother and father she’d lost. Her sister and brothers, too.

Tipp knew better than to press, so he went back to his original question. “What is it a-about her? About T-Tilda? Is it still just what she r-represents—that you d-don’t want another prisoner to d-die, not if you c-can help it? That’s w-what you said, right?”

Seeing his curiosity, Kiva found herself answering, “It’s that, yes. But . . .” She paused, then quietly admitted, “She also reminds me of someone I used to know.”

Tipp turned to face her fully, his blue eyes suddenly lined with tears. “I w-wasn’t sure if you’d noticed. I didn’t w-want to say anything, afraid to make a b-big deal out of it.”

Kiva dropped the food she was mixing aquifer moss into and moved a step toward him. “Tipp—”

“I didn’t r-realize when she first arrived, but once you c-cleaned her up . . .” Tipp said, quickly wiping his face. “She r-reminds me so m-much of Mama.”

Kiva opened her arms in invitation, and he climbed out of the rat pen into her embrace. His tears didn’t fall, but his sadness still enveloped them.

“Ineke would be so proud of you,” Kiva told him quietly. “You know that, right? So proud.”

For the life of her, Kiva had no idea how Tilda reminded Tipp of his departed mother, other than that they were of similar ages and had dark hair. Perhaps that was all that was needed to bring the memories to the forefront of Tipp’s mind. The same had been true for Kiva after her brother had been killed; for years, every young boy she’d seen had reminded her of Kerrin.

“I just . . . I’m really g-glad you care about her,” Tipp said. “Even if I know it’s n-not really Mama, it means a lot to me that you’re d-doing what you can, that you’re trying to help her.” He pushed back from Kiva and shuffled his feet as he admitted, “I know I was upset a-about you taking on her sentence, b-but you did the right thing. And you’re d-d-doing so great with the Ordeals, so I’m sure t-tomorrow will be the same.”