The corridors of the packhouse are unnervingly silent at this hour, but the healer knows better than to feel safe. Silence never means safety; it means watchfulness. The kind that hides in the dark, just anticipating your mistake.
Yet she moves carefully with her cloak pulled tightly around her and her pouch close to her body. She feels the weight of what she carries, heavier than it should, as if the herbs pressed on her ribs, reminding her that she is taking a great risk.
Nana is getting weaker. Three months have passed and the signs are already there. The fatigue. The sharp, unbearable pains. How her body shrinks into herself, like she’s fighting something that’s bigger than she could ever hope to overcome herself.
She gets to the servant quarters and pauses just outside of Nana’s sp
