Chapter 23: The Door at the End of the Wing II

Lyria’s POV

At last, the end of the corridor came into view. I sighed, relieved, but then my steps faltered when I noticed something.

The guard that was supposed to be stationed at the door was nowhere in sight. He simply was not there.

Relief struck me first. The goddess had heard my prayers after all and perhaps had made sure that the guard was not stationed there so I could slip in and do what it was I wanted to do.

But just as I felt relief, I felt irritation immediately. Then something colder... something that was burning in anger.

Why was he not there?

My eyes flicked instinctively to the corners of the passage, to the small alcove near the window where guards sometimes rested when they were bored of standing.

But there was nothing at all. The corridor remained empty and obediently silent.

That made me even more annoyed. Why were they not present?

What if something had gone wrong? There was a reason they were placed as guards after all. They should have been watching over my mother. They should have been here.

What if—

I pushed the thought aside at once, then took a deep breath like Patricia advised whenever I was getting too heated.

And besides, if the guard had been present, I would not have been able to enter at all.

I controlled my breathing and then moved quickly to the door, my fingers already drawing the thin wire from the inside of my sleeve. The lock was old, maintained more out of formality than necessity.

It yielded to me within seconds... I was not surprised.

The faint click sounded far too loud in my ears, and I immediately turned and scanned my surroundings, making sure there was no one present. Thankfully, there wasn’t.

I slipped inside and shut the door carefully behind me.

The room was dim.

A single lamp burned low on the side table, its flame turned down to the smallest permitted glow. Pale curtains softened the daylight spilling in through the tall, narrow window, and the faint scent of crushed herbs lingered heavily in the air.

My gaze went straight to the bed where my mother was. She lay very still on the bed, and for one terrible heartbeat, the stillness almost fooled me.

Her hair was spread thinly across the pillow, dulled to silver by illness and shadow. Her face looked narrower than I remembered, the hollows beneath her cheekbones deepened by weeks of weakness.

To anyone passing through—she would have looked dead.

But I knew she wasn’t. I wasn’t passing through after all, and I noticed the faint rise and fall of her chest.

The breath that barely disturbed the blanket.

I crossed the room in three quiet steps and dropped to my knees beside her.

"M-Mama..."

The word slipped out of me before I could stop it.

I pressed my fingers lightly to her wrist just to clarify that she was alive. Her pulse was faint—very faint—but I could detect it. That was enough to tell me she was alive.

I drew the herbs from my cloak and set them on the bedside table with reverent care.

The palace physicians preferred their grand glass cabinets and sterile instruments.

I worked with what I had learned.

What I had watched. I had only seen the physician do it twice, but it was enough.

The Queen had summoned me when I was little to witness the treatment, so that she could remind me—very thoroughly—that my mother lived due to her benevolence. Those were the exact words she told me.

The crushed moonpetal root had already been steeped and strained earlier in the day. The silverthorn resin was softened and dissolved into the mixture. The frostbloom extract waited in its narrow tube.

The remedy was meant to be taken orally.

But my mother’s condition did not allow for that to happen. She was unconscious after all.

So they had used a hypodermic syringe. It was a device the physicians had developed about twenty years ago. The physicians were extremely proud of their work.

A slender glass barrel with a metal needle so thin it frightened me the first time I saw it.

I retrieved the small case hidden beneath the linen at the side of the bed and opened it carefully.

The syringe was clean. It was wrapped and ready for use too.

My hands were steady as I combined the prepared solution into the glass barrel, measuring the dosage exactly as I had seen before.

Not a breath more.

Not a drop less.

Too much would shock her system.

Too little would do nothing at all.

I expelled the air with a precise flick of my thumb.

Just as the physician had done, then I drew back the sheet at her arm.

Her skin looked fragile and almost translucent. She hated sharp objects, and if she was conscious she would have cried and pushed me away, telling me to get that spawn of a demon out of her.

The spawn of a demon would be the needle I was holding. I almost laughed at that. I would give anything to hear my mother’s voice. I would do anything to hear her scold me in that soft voice of hers. How long had it been?

I sighed. Instead of wallowing in thoughts, I should do what I came to do.

"It w-won’t h-hurt, Mama," I whispered, though she could not hear me.

I cleaned the skin gently with the little cloth I had, using the same mixture the physicians had left behind.

Then I slid the needle beneath it, shallow and careful, into the flesh of her upper arm.

I did not rush. I remembered the physician telling the Queen that if they rushed, it could affect her condition, so I did it slowly.

I watched her face, willing myself to see even a faint frown on her face, but there was nothing.

When the barrel emptied, I withdrew the needle and pressed the cloth gently against the small puncture.

It was done.

I set the syringe aside and closed my eyes for a moment.