Page 72 of Sharpest Court

My pulse steadied as I saw the trust in her eyes—directed toward this man.

“Your stitches are ready for removal, my lady.” Stian gestured to my arm.

That night at Rheya’s palace, I’d marveled at how the clinician had washed the dried blood off me. It was a kindness many wouldn’t have thought to offer.

Though still wary, I set down my plate of lemon muffins and drifted forward. Valeria gave me a grateful smile before she left us.

I was easing into the armchair when another chair scraped toward me, and I jumped.

“Still growing accustomed to free Wielding, I presume?” Stian hitched up the knees of his trousers and sat, the rainbow light dancing over his spectacles. He smelled like the bitter dregs of a teapot, all musk and herbs. “I’m afraid it’s something of a crutch in this empire. A true curse, according to some.”

My eyes narrowed. “How so?”

“They say the most vulnerable person in the world is not a Wholeborn. It’s a Wielder without their specter.”

I shuddered, having experienced that truth in Erik’s dungeon. Without my specter, I’d felt sickeningly weak.

“Not to mention, it encourages idleness,” Stian said, chuckling. “May I see the wound, my lady?”

I nodded, and he unpeeled the bandage with cool, scratchy fingers.

Then he frowned. “These appear sorer than they should.”

I hesitated. Regardless of his gentle manner, this man worked with Arun. I didn’t want him finding out about my brush with a Hunter.

So I said, steadily, “I suppose I wasn’t careful enough.”

Stian waited as though for a better explanation. When I didn’t provide one, his mouth slanted with a smile. “Very well,” he said, with the air of humoring a fibbing child.

I remained rigid as he wiped my arm with a sterilizing cloth, the alcohol fumes stinging my throat. As he shifted, sunlight glanced over a small brooch on his blazer—a ringed sunburst containing a single golden bead.

A bead matching the one on my vanity upstairs.

My eyes widened. “You’re a member of the Ansoran Gallery.”

Stian laughed under his breath. “I assure you, it’s far from glamorous. You’ll find more ceremonial pomp within the local choir.”

I frowned, studying his expression. The protection of the Gallery was no small thing. It was international immunity—freedom in the highest sense.

So how had this man earned it?

“The empress has only ever extended the invitation to a handful of people,” I said, keeping my voice mild. “You must have done her a great service.”

“Yes, I believe she was impressed with my work.”

“You make it sound as though you painted her a portrait she admired.”

Stian smiled. “Throughout history, people have been invited into the Gallery for less.”

I pursed my lips. For a healer, he certainly recognized a courtier’s method of probing.

I was about to press him again when he opened a wooden box on the end table, revealing rows of small wooden cylinders with rounded tops. Dispensers, striped with varying colors. And tucked in the farthest corner . . . one striped with black.

A dullroot dispenser.

I jolted with alarm.

Stian raised his open palms again. “It’s for therapeutic purposes, my lady. I am licensed to use it.”