Wonderful knelt beside Seeker’s bed, pressing a cool, damp cloth to his forehead. When he tried to rise, she laid a hand on his chest, gently preventing him.
“I have to.” He struggled to sit up. “Work.”
“Daddy, lie still,” she said firmly. “How are you supposed to work when you can’t even string two words together?”
“Mother!” she called across the house.
Moments later Beautiful appeared in the doorway.
“Daddy’s being stubborn,” Wonderful said. “Tell him he won’t get better if he won’t rest.”
“Book,” Seeker muttered.
Beautiful sat beside him and took his hand. “Rest a little longer, love. I’ll bring your book.”
Wonderful rose and smoothed her dress. “I’ve made up my mind,” she said.
Beautiful met her gaze, a weary sigh escaping her.
“I’m going to be Mr. Skill’s apprentice.”
***
Wonderful knocked softly on Mr. Skill’s door and waited, hands clasped in front of her. She didn’t knock again. When the door opened, Mr. Skill straightened at the sight of her.
“My father is sick,” she said simply.
He turned to reach for his satchel, but she caught his arm. “No—don’t get it. Teach me.”
He studied her for a long moment, as if weighing her soul. Then, a faint smile touched his lips. “Very well,” he said softly. “Come in.”
–
He led her into his stillroom. Shelves lined the wall, crowded with glass jars and stoppered vials—some clear, others tinted amber or green. Each bore a neat label in careful script: Tinctura Hyperici, Unguentum Valerianae, Spiritus Menthae. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters, their scents mingling in the air—rosemary, sage, and foxglove among them. A mortar and pestle sat on the counter, its surface dusted with traces of crushed petals and powdered bark.
A copper still gleamed softly in the lamplight, breathing thin curls of fragrant steam into the air. At the hearth, a kettle simmered over a low fire, its quiet bubbling the room’s only sound.
–
Day by day, Wonderful rose with the sun and went to Mr. Skill’s house, where he taught her patiently. Some mornings he explained, and she took careful notes, ink smudging her fingertips. Other days they wandered the Plain of Ease together, gathering herbs beneath the open sky.
–
“This is chamomile,” he said showing her a jar of small, delicate blossoms. “Steep it in hot water for headaches.”
“Boneset,” he said lifting a stalk from the bundle beside him. “You’ll find it near running water, where the ground stays cool and damp. Its leaves are rough and hairy, its flowers a deep purple. It mends bruises—and broken bones.”
As they walked across the Plain of Ease, they came upon a patch of yarrow, its fern-like leaves spread low beneath clusters of tiny white blooms. “It loves the sun,” he said kneeling beside it. “Good for closing wounds and cooling fevers.”
As they walked, she noticed a dense cluster of golden-yellow flowers, each with five bright petals. With his pruners, he clipped the upper stems and tied them neatly into a bundle. Then he held one leaf to the light.
“See the tiny pinholes?” he said softly. “They’re windows for the sun—bringing grace to the darkened mind.”
He knelt beside a tall plant crowned with pale pink umbels and began to loosen the soil around its base. Gently, he lifted the roots free. “It favors damp ground,” he said, brushing the dirt from his hands, “but only where the moon can reach it. It brings sleep—and quiets the heart.”
–
“Discernment is necessary,” he said. “Not every remedy suits every wound. The dose matters—what heals in small measure can harm, even kill, in excess.”
He opened a small pouch filled with hard resin. “Myrrh,” he said. “Some gifts come dear. You’ll find this in the merchant’s tent. Its smoke drives corruption from the air.”
–
Wonderful learned quickly, taking careful notes and helping Mr. Skill prepare his medicines. Under his guidance she mastered the steps of each preparation, and before long she could work almost entirely on her own.
–
“You have to see the whole person,” he taught her. “Always begin with the eyes. Dull eyes speak of weariness. Yellow of bile, and bright eyes of fever. But you have to see deeper. Sometimes the sickness is not of the body, but the hope within.”
“Listen to your patient,” he said. “Their tongue will tell you much. A good healer speaks little and listens long. Attend to their voice—the strength of it, the breath between words, and whether their thoughts hold together.”
“Next, feel their heat and pulse,” he said. “If the heart beats too fast, it flees from battle; too slow and it despairs of victory. From the skin you can sense fever, shock, or the faintness of a failing heart.”
“A foul scent warns of corruption,” he said. “Every sickness, every poison carries its own odor. In time, you’ll know them all.”
“And be watchful,” he said. “Hands tremble for many reasons—some from cold, others from fear. A chill may seize the body or the soul. Clenched fists can hide pain.”
“If the body ails, give medicine. If the soul, give mercy. Often the two walk hand in hand—and you must tend both, or neither will mend.” He paused, eyes softening, “And when you face a sickness you cannot heal, do not despair. Healing belongs to the Great Physician.”
–
And Wonderful heeded Mr. Skill’s words. She watched her father closely, studying every breath and motion as if reading a living book. Then she shared her observations with Mr. Skill, and together they walked the Plain of Ease, gathering fresh herbs. Under his patient guidance, she prepared medicine for Seeker.
***
At first, Seeker refused the medicine, shaking his head stubbornly. No coaxing, no pleading would move him—until Wonderful’s tears broke through his defiance. Then, at last, he relented.
The first night, Seeker thrashed in his sleep. By morning, a fury had seized him—he ranted and cursed without pause, and it went on for three days. Beautiful grew terrified, but Wonderful urged her to be patient. On the fifth day, a strange stillness fell over him. His eyes were open, yet empty—flat and lifeless, like a man staring through the veil between worlds.
On the seventh day, the bruise began to fade. His dizziness lifted, his thoughts cleared, and for the first time in months, a smile returned to his face.
That night, he slept peacefully—for the first time in years. His rest had always been troubled and thin, haunted by dreams that never let him go.
A Shining One stood before him. He did not so much arrive as dawn. He cast no light—he was light: living, searching, unblinking. His wings spread vast and gold, the hue of morning breaking through the clouds. His hair shimmered like sunlight caught in water. His eyes burned—not with heat, but with comprehension.
“You have been invited.” His voice moved like wind across harp strings. It did not reach Seeker’s ears so much as his soul. He felt the meaning rather than understood it—as though words were too small to hold what had been spoken.
The invitation was written in letters of gold—the same hand that had penned the note in the Interpreter’s tower—and it was signed, simply: I.
The Shining One led him through the streets of Vanity. At the city’s heart stood a stately mansion, its marble walls and gardens gleaming in the unearthly light.
Seeker turned to ask the Shining One what manner of place this was—but he stood alone, though the light had not faded. He blinked, and in that instant, found himself lying in his own bed beside Beautiful, sunlight streaming softly through the window.
What did the dream mean? He searched the bed, the floor—no invitation written in letters of gold. Yet he remembered every step as if branded into his mind.
He would go and see.
Uriel leads Seeker through Vanity