Chapter 17
“Well,don’t you look just like the proper queen?” Harrow slurs his words. The prince’s hair is stringy and clings to his cheeks, which have a sickly pallor. “Already up here, spending your days with plants rather than people.”
“I find plants rarely attack me, unlike people.” I slowly close the book, resisting the urge to run over and inspect him to determine what ailment he has.
“I beg to differ.” He pants.
“You need medical attention.”
“I need Poppy. Where is she?”
“Willow mentioned she’s off on some kind of a special assignment.” I think that’s what he said earlier? I was too focused on studying to get the details and Willow was too focused on scratching behind Hook’s ears to elaborate on what Poppy was doing.
Harrow curses.
“Willow will be back soon—”
“I don’t want the understudy,” Harrow seethes. Pain is pinching his face, making it even uglier than normal.
“Then how about a queen?”
“Like I would ever let you touch me,” he says, but he makes no effort to leave.
“Mmhmm.” I roll my eyes at the child he’s being and point to one of the stools. “Sit.”
“How dare you—”
“How dare I try and heal you even after you were an ass to me?” I snap. “Now, sit, you arrogant prince, before your stubbornness has you toppling over or throwing up.” Either looks equally possible.
Harrow stares at me blankly. His eyes are glassy and dull—because of fever, likely, given all the sweating he’s doing. His shirt clings to the doorway and then suctions back to his skin as he moves to sit. I quickly thumb through the journals. I know how to cure sicknesses, but there may be even more effective ways locked in these dusty pages.
Do I dare try using my magic now of all times?
“Did you wake up not feeling well?”
He chuckles and shakes his head. I glance over at him. The stool creaks as he leans against the table.
“So this came on later in the day?”
“A lot of things came on later…last night, this morning, sometime…time, slipping between my hands, fingers…life…ah, damn it all.” He’s not making any sense.
“Harrow, tell me what doesn’t feel good.”
“Everything.” He snorts and slumps. I see his head go limp and Harrow catches it quickly as he relies even more on the table for support. I’ve raced over to him, my hand on his shoulder.
“Unhand me, human.”
“Stop,” I say, softer, trying with all my might to take the venom from my voice. An ugly corner of me wants to let him suffer. But my training—everything I have dedicated my life to until this moment—won’t let me. “I can heal you. But I need to know what must be done. Your wounds are on the inside right now, I can’t see them. So I need you to tell me what’s wrong.”
“Too much partying is all.”
I saw him last night, I remember. He looked in bad shape then. But he was with his friends, surely they were looking out for him? Though Aria seemed fairly gleeful, given his state…
“You don’t look like you came from a party,” I murmur. “You look like you came from a fight and lost.”
He glowers. “Are you done mocking me?”
“I’m not sure. Can I mock you into being a model patient?”