Date: The Afternoon of the 3rd Day of the Month of Blossoms, Year 1107 of the Imperial Calendar.
Location: The "Rat's Nest," Deep Slums.
The shame of the bucket had been the final straw. After that, the silence set in.
It wasn't a peaceful silence. It wasn't the quiet of a library or a sleeping house. It was a heavy, suffocating weight, like a stone lodged in the windpipe.
Aanya sat in the corner of the shack, her knees pulled up to her chest, the rough wool blanket draped over her head like a shroud. She was staring at a knot in the wood of the wall. She had been staring at it for three hours.
She felt the words inside her throat. They were piling up—I hurt, I'm cold, I'm sorry, I want my mother—but the path from her brain to her tongue had collapsed.
If she opened her mouth, she was afraid she wouldn't speak. She was afraid she would scream until her heart burst. So she kept her mouth shut. She locked the door to her voice just as Veer had locked the door to the shack.
"So," Veer said, his voice loud in the small space.
He was sitting on a crate, whittling a piece of wood with a small knife. He was trying to be casual, but his eyes kept darting to her, filled with a nervous energy.
"You haven't asked about the neighbors," Veer said, gesturing to the shadows in the rafters. "See that fat one up there? The rat with the missing ear? That's Baron Whiskers. He thinks he runs this block, but he's terrified of thunder."
Aanya didn't blink. She didn't look at the rat. She stared at the knot in the wood.
Veer chuckled, but it sounded forced. "And the one under the floorboards? That's his ex-wife. Terrible temper. Reminds me of the fishmonger on 4th Street."
He waited for a smile. A huff of breath. Anything.
Aanya remained a statue.
Veer stopped whittling. He sighed, tossing the wood chip into the dirt.
"tough crowd," he muttered. "I used to do stand-up for the guards while they were arresting me. They loved me."
He stood up and walked over to her. He moved slowly, broadcasting his movements so as not to startle her.
"Aanya?"
She flinched.
It was a tiny, violent spasm, as if he had raised a hand to strike her. She pressed her face harder into her knees.
Veer stopped. He crouched down, keeping his distance.
"I'm not him," Veer said softly. "I'm not Silas. I'm not the Emperor. I'm just Veer. The apple boy. Remember?"
Aanya remembered. But the memory felt like it belonged to a different person. That Aanya had a voice. This Aanya had only a stone throat.
Veer stayed there for a moment, watching her. He saw the way she was shivering. It wasn't the rhythmic shivering of the cold anymore. It was the erratic, convulsing tremor of fever.
He reached out and touched her forehead.
She jerked her head back, hitting the wall with a hollow thump, but Veer held his hand there for a split second.
"You're burning up," he swore under his breath.
Her skin was radiating heat. The infection from the raw face, the cut hand, and the exposure to the filthy midden heap was taking hold. Her eyes, when they briefly met his, were glassy and unfocused.
"Stay here," Veer commanded needlessly.
He went to his stash of supplies—a hollowed-out space under a loose floorboard. He pulled out a small pouch containing strips of dried bark.
Willow bark. The poor man's healer. It tasted like mud and bitterness, but it dulled pain and broke fevers.
Veer grabbed a metal cup. He filled it with rainwater from the bucket. He crumbled the bark into it and held it over the flame of the single tallow candle until the water turned a murky brown.
He swirled it, blowing on it to cool it down.
"Drink," Veer said, returning to her side. He held the cup out. "It tastes like old boots, but it helps."
Aanya looked at the cup. She smelled the bitter earthiness of the brew.
Her body screamed for it. Her head was pounding with a pressure that threatened to crack her skull. Her face felt like it was being held against a hot iron.
But she didn't reach for the cup.
She looked at her hands—the hands that had smashed the mirror. The hands that belonged to a monster.
I deserve this, the dark voice in her head whispered.
She had deceived the King. She had been vain. She had let her parents sell her sister. The pain was her punishment. If she drank the medicine, she was trying to escape her sentence.
She clamped her mouth shut. She shook her head.
"Aanya," Veer said, his voice tightening with frustration. "Don't be stupid. You have a fever. Drink it."
Aanya squeezed her eyes shut. She turned her head away, pressing her cheek against the damp wall.
"You want to die?" Veer asked, his tone sharpening. "Is that it? You want to curl up and die in my shack?"
Aanya didn't answer. The silence was her answer. Yes. Let me die. It's better for everyone.
Veer gripped the cup so hard his knuckles turned white. He wanted to grab her. He wanted to force the liquid down her throat. He wanted to shake her until she snapped out of this catatonic self-pity.
But he saw the bruises on her arms. He saw the terror in her posture.
He couldn't force her. Force was what the world used.
"Fine," Veer snapped. He slammed the cup down on the dirt floor. The brown liquid sloshed over the rim. "Suffer then. But don't think you're being noble. You're just giving up."
He stood up and walked away, pacing the small length of the shack.
Aanya listened to his footsteps. Pace. Turn. Pace. Turn.
She felt the heat of the fever consuming her. It felt like the Alchemist's mask was back, but this time, it covered her whole body.
She stared at the spilled drops of medicine soaking into the dirt.
She opened her mouth to say I'm sorry.
But the stone in her throat was too heavy. No sound came out. She closed her eyes and let the fire burn.