"Yes, sir," Ajan said, and this time sounded the grim young lieutenant I had come to know, in flashes here and there, through his levity of manner.

"Here," the physician said, passing Ajan one of the doses, "is your insurance. Take it and lie down now."

"Yes, sir," Ajan said, subdued, and downed it in one swallow before heading straight to his own pallet. I watched as he curled up on it and, from all evidence, fell immediately asleep. I wondered if this was a discipline the Guardians learned, or if it was merely exhaustion.

"Your turn," the physician said, passing me my own little cup.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Something to strengthen your body against infection," the physician said. "It will not save you if you decide to bathe in the osulkedi's sweat, or drink his spit, but so long as you maintain your distance and wash your hands conscientiously, it should be sufficient for your turn at his sickbed."

I drank it, finding it bitter and floral, and passed the cup back to him.

"Two hours," the physician reminded me, packing his bag. "Then wake the Guardian."

"What happens in two hours?" I asked.

"The lord's sister will arrive," the physician answered, already on the way to the door. "And you will be needed to explain all of this... to her."

I grimaced. "Of course."

"Remember, if the fever rises, send for me at once." And with that he was gone, leaving me at Shame's side.

I looked down at him and sighed. "You are supposed to be the powerful one," I murmured. "So why am I the one still on my feet?" And then, feeling guilt for scolding him, I went to the main room and found my small book. With the work of a few moments, I had a comfortable stool and a few pencils, and there I sat to contemplate the face of the man I had come to the Bleak to save.

That was what Thirukedi had sent me for, was it not? To save him? I drew an idle line on a blank page, letting it turn into a spiral. To mend a broken pot... that did imply... rescue, in some sense. Or healing. But the Emperor had asked me which of the broken pot narratives I liked best, and while he'd approved of my particular choice, it was not the only one. I began drawing pots in various states of disrepair, each growing more and more flawed until at last I gave up in despair. I looked at the face of Shame, who had become Kor to me in rather less time than I had thought possible. He was drawn, something that did not serve him with such severe lineaments. It made the hollows under his cheeks all the more extreme.

And yet, for all that, it was a beautiful face. It had been born to the work his ishas had demanded he undertake, and that work had refined it... in the planes of his jaw and the severity of his brow I saw the years of toil. Kherishdar's sole Shame, the pinnacle of compassion in the face of weakness.

I could not bear to see him shattered. I could not allow such a matter to stand, if there was any power in me to mend it.

It was a defiance of all courtesies and rules then, for I had not been permitted... but some part of me whispered that it was an exception, for care of the sick grants many powers. The kiss I rested on his brow was perhaps more personal than that exception imagined, but I could not have helped delivering it if I'd tried. And truth be known, aunera, I did not try.

"Grow strong," I murmured to him. "We are watching over you."

Two hours later then, I rose from the stool, careful of knees that had stiffened, and approached Ajan. I was reluctant to wake him, who seemed so deeply asleep; the even rising and falling of his ribcage was so slow I could only imagine how much he needed the rest.

I should have known better, of course. I had no sooner stepped close enough to touch him than he sat up, alert and clear-eyed.

"Is it time?" he asked.

"Yes," I said. "There has been no change."

He nodded and made to stride past me and back to the spot he'd been occupying since Shame's return.

"Ajan," I called. "If you'd like to wash, I can stay a little longer."

He paused and sniffed at his collarbone. "Am I so offensive?"

"Not precisely," I said. "I just thought you would feel better."

"I will feel better when my master wakes," Ajan said, and managed a lopsided smile. "Maybe my odor will prompt him to do so, if only to chivvy me into the bath."

There would be no drawing him away, I knew then. I didn't press and left him to his vigil.

After my own bath and toilette, I let myself out of our suite and went in search of someone who could tell me what to expect next. I was tired still; I no longer weather such long nights easily, and I could only imagine I'd be spending several more at Kor's bedside before this was all done. But I was also anxious over the house's tumult. I could feel it in the halls, the upset, even suppressed as it was. You might wonder how I might sense such a thing, and I wouldn't be able to tell you the exact method, but it was something about people not being where they should be, or hurrying too much, or clustering in nervous groups that broke apart like birds at the slightest sound.

I went first to see the physician, who looked up sharply at my entrance.

"It is not the osulkedi," I told him. "There has been no change there. I came asking after the lord and the observer."

The space between my question and his answer was only a few heartbeats long, but that was long enough for a wild hope to grow like one of the House's rainflowers, straight and tall and breathlessly strong. If the lord had recovered, we might yet avoid all the disorder, and more importantly, I might avoid having to discuss with the lord's sister all that we surmised—

"Still unconscious," the physician said, uprooting the flower of my hope. I imagined it trampled and sighed.

"I suppose I am not surprised," I said heavily. "The poison afflicting Qenain is significant. Do you know when the lord's sister is due?"

"An hour or so," the physician said. "You have time to break your fast, and I suggest you do so." He cocked his head. "By the by, thank you for sending the fathrikedi our way. She has been a great help."

I read his tone and managed a tired smile. "The house is truly distrait, isn't it."

"A fathrikedi serving as sickbed attendant?" the physician said. "Yes, I would say it is. They were intended to warm beds, not fidget at their sides."

I rubbed my face with one hand. "I will eat. Then I will tell the lord's sister what we know, when she arrives."

He nodded. As I turned to leave, he added, "Calligrapher. There comes a point in any disease's course where the body grows too compromised to survive."

A chill ran the length of my spine, nape to tail. "I know."

I went to the kitchen then to request a meal, and could not bear to take it amid the distressed workers. Instead I ate alone in one of the house's many sunny alcoves, and the food was delicious and nourishing and I barely tasted it at all. It was a miracle it did not go sour the moment it passed my lips.

I had only just finished the tea when a Servant appeared at the corner of my eye. I turned to him with an expectant look, and he said, "Osulkedi, the lord's sister is in the courtyard."

Gods and ancestors. At least I wouldn't have time to fret over the matter. I stood, smoothing down my robes and arranging the stole of my office more carefully over my narrow shoulders, then followed the Servant to meet the house's newest manager.

Some of you have recalled that the lord has a wife, and have wondered why she was not sent for; this is a fair question. You may know that we favor large families, and often have many siblings: depending on the caste, anywhere between two and five is typical, but it is not at all rare to have more, particularly in these days when medicine has made childbearing less risky. All families train up their children with the assumption that they will remain within the caste, doing the work of their parents, and this is sensible as most children do. Not always of course—that is why we evaluate the ishas of a child twice before maturity—but most of the time.

The practical result of this, then, is that the lord's siblings have been involved in the business of the House since they were old enough to pick up a basket of flowers and traipse after their aunts and uncles and parents and cousins. The lord's wife, having married into Qenain by choice, was relatively new to the business, and entrusted with the management of the flower shops in the capital. The lord's sister, however, was a principal of the House of Flowers, and empowered to make more broadly affecting decisions.

I had not met her; watching her slide off her beast and hand her riding gloves to a Servant, I could see at a glance what Seraeda had meant about her ishas. She moved like a woman of numbers. Perhaps you have seen something similar? The way the mind perceives the world affects the body's interaction with it. I could see her clear and incisive gaze even from a distance, so different from her brother's energy and passionate agitation. She moved with a crisp economy that disturbed her robes of state, as if they wanted more poetry and finish in her gestures and gait than she was prepared to waste.

And she was striding straight towards me. I straightened as she came to a halt in front of me.

"Osulkedi," she said briskly. "I was not expecting one of your caste-rank here."

"Lady," I said, deferential. "We were sent for by the lord."