Chapter 4 – Moonleaf Tonic
She corked the vial and hid it beneath a floorboard. Q
“You’re getting bolder.”
She didn’t move, but her hand brushed the wheel subtly-comfort or caution, he
wasn’t sure.
He summoned her mid-afternoon.
White halls. Screaming children. Metal restraints. Her mentor’s voice, cold and resigned: *”You spoke. That alone makes you dangerous.”*
“You want *what*?” Captain Varek barked.
She crushed the herbs carefully, pouring oil over the mixture in a tiny ceramic bowl. A faint hum rose-the blend responding to her presence.
As he slept, twitching fingers curled around the blanket edge, she watched from the door.
“I used to want to die,” he admitted suddenly. “Every day since the fire.”
“No,” he whispered. “Didn’t think so.”
Now, its glass dome sagged inward like the ribs of a dead beast, snow clinging to fractured panes. Twisted vines clawed up the walls, half-dead but still breathing under
the ice.
She offered no answer.
“What did you do to me?”
He studied her. “You’re not just a servant. You have training. Discipline. Silence isn’t the same as ignorance.”
He squinted. “Moonleaf? Ferro-moss? What are you, a court chemist?”
When she brought the tray, he caught her hand before she could set it down.
The cold? Or memory?
He talked, as usual.
She complied.
That evening, he invited her on another walk.
She gathered duskroot near the northern basin, where water still trickled.
She nodded.
She didn’t move.
Too little, and he’d suffer.
She didn’t deny it.
“You know,” he said, “I hated servants once. Thought they were all spies or liars.”
He released her.
She remained still.
Control.
The auroras shifted above them like painted fire.
She reached for the cup to clean it.
He picked up the tea she brought him, sniffed it. “Same blend?”
He leaned forward, voice dropping. “Did someone *teach* you this? Or were you born
with it?”
She held her ground, gaze lowered but posture unyielding.
–
“Pain is remembering something your body can’t do anymore, every second of every day.”
She almost smiled.
23.16
2/6
The final tonic shimmered, faintly blue.
“But,” he added, “I’d rather know what else you’re hiding.”
Behind her, he muttered, “Creeping around like a ghost. One of these days, girl, you’ll
slip.”
“Do you know what pain is, little mute?”
“But you… You’re harder to dismiss.”
They wheeled through the narrow parapets, the sky above splashed with green and gold.
That night, she added only one drop of moonleaf tonic to his tea.
“You’ve been out,” he said casually.
Eileen stood before his desk, holding a neat list written in tight script.
He took the cup, sipped. “Tastes the same. But it’s not.”
Too much, and he’d suspect.
“I should have you arrested,” he said. “Medicinal experimentation on a royal patient is punishable by exile.”
Sensation.
Eileen adjusted the blanket over his lap.
He sipped it. Paused. Looked at her.
She signed only one word: *Herbs.*
She held his gaze.
“But not now,” he continued. “Not since you started feeding me whatever the hell that
is.”
As she turned to leave, he murmured, “One day I’ll catch you. And when I do, you’ll speak.”
He paused. “There’s a weight to you. Like your silence is made of iron.”
He was healing.
He huffed. “Fine. Freeze if you want. Guards won’t follow you in there.”
“Right,” he said. “Not talking.”
“Access to the *south greenhouse*?” he scoffed. “That place is condemned.”
As she clipped a sprig of ferro-moss, her fingers trembled-only slightly.
“Tell me,” he said, “why are you here, really? Slum girls don’t know how to stabilize nerve decay.”
Silence.
And soon… he’d remember her.
She found moonleaf tucked under a burst pipe, its silver veins pulsing faintly.
The memories struck hard and fast once she returned to the attic.
She added a second sheet-inventory notes showing dwindling medicinal herbs.
“Don’t ignore me,” he said sharply. “What was in it?”
She didn’t respond.
He turned to look at her. “Are you afraid of me?”
He stared at them, disbelieving.
That was her gift.
That night, Cyr studied her as she moved around the hearth, adjusting the pillows
beneath his back.
He let out a humorless laugh. “You’re good at this. Playing the ghost.”
She looked up at him, unflinching.
Eileen worked fast.
He chuckled. “Fine. We’ll do it your way.”
Her fingers glowed faintly.
“Except tonight. Tonight I feel… less broken.”
Almost.
And her curse.
The greenhouse had once been beautiful.
Then the real trial would begin.
“Tea,” he ordered. “The same kind.”
Then he laughed. A hoarse, bitter sound that cracked like ice.
–
She bowed and turned to go.
She whispered, not in words, but in resonance-just enough to bind the compounds.
By morning, Cyr woke with something he hadn’t felt in months.
She didn’t pause.
“I smell dirt on your boots. Wet leaves. You’ve been gathering.”
He downed the rest in a single gulp.
He narrowed his eyes.
His fingertips tingled. His thighs twitched. Dull pulses of *feeling* shot down his legs.
Balance.
“What for? Collecting frostbite? Or planning something clever?”
She wasn’t sure.
Her gaze flicked to the fire.
