For what felt like a couple of hours, at least by my estimation, we were tearing through the forest. Well, “we” is a generous term—Professor Kolvin was running, and I was stumbling along behind him, tripping over every root, bump, hole, and branch since we definitely weren’t sticking to any marked trails. For the umpteenth time, I was glad I’d opted for sneakers instead of sandals, which probably would’ve given up the ghost an hour ago in this far-from-urban terrain. Every question I threw at Kolvin got a short, curt response: “Yes,” “No,” “Later.” Sometimes I’d hear “This way” or “Watch out.” The latter usually came after I’d already managed to trip and mutter a curse under my breath (it was getting harder to hold back).
But, to give the professor some credit, he did occasionally manage to catch this clumsy student mid-fall, preventing my personal aircraft—aka me—from crash-landing into the dirt. I was endlessly grateful for that, though if he’d caught me more often, I’d be a lot less filthy, and my gratitude would’ve been proportionally higher. But, it is what it is. Thanks for what I got!
Man, it’s been ages since I’ve trekked through a forest! I’m out of practice. As a kid, I wouldn’t have even noticed these roots—I’d hop over them like a little goat! Civilization really does a number on your ability to adapt to nature; I’ve lost almost all my agility and quickness. Though, in the last ten minutes, I’d gotten a bit luckier. Maybe my body’s muscle memory was rudely awakened by my mental string of curses and took the wheel. Even Kolvin glanced back in surprise; it had been a while since he’d heard my muffled grumbling. Probably checking to make sure all of me was still there. What if I’d gotten snagged somewhere along the way, and all he had left in his iron grip was a stray limb? He even flashed me a smile—genuinely encouraging. Caught off guard, my face froze in a weird grimace, and whatever I managed to muster in response wasn’t exactly friendly-looking.
Finally, we stopped near a thicket of fir trees. I let out a relieved sigh:
“Which gods do I thank for this break?”
The professor just snorted:
“Doesn’t matter. No one’s listening anyway.”
“Great, then I won’t waste energy on the small stuff.”
He glanced at me, squinting slyly:
“You’ve still got energy left?”
“Well, since I’m still on my feet and not passed out,” I waved vaguely toward the grass, “I guess I do.”
Kolvin nodded for some reason:
“Good. Then keep standing,” he suddenly locked eyes with me. “But stand right where you are.”
I stared at him, dumbfounded:
“Completely still?”
“Valeria, when I say ‘right where you are,’ it means you stand there and don’t try to take a single step forward or sideways unless you want trouble. Am I clear?”
“You didn’t explain; you ordered.”
“Doesn’t matter. Call it an order, then. Stand still and don’t move, Sokolovska!”
Oh, here we go—level one irritation! Or maybe level two, since he’s back to formal “you” and my last name? The professor, stepping carefully on the grass, headed toward the firs and soon disappeared behind the branches. I don’t know how long he was gone, but it felt like forever. I hate waiting! Somewhere nearby, a twig snapped, then silence. Maybe I imagined it? I looked around in every direction but saw nothing, though it felt like someone was watching me. Or was I being paranoid again? While I was twisting around like that, I lost my balance and—completely by accident, I swear—took a couple of steps forward…
I barely managed to clamp my jaw shut and cover my mouth with both hands to keep from screaming at the pain that shot from my ankle all the way up to, I think, my brain. Yes, I knew I couldn’t scream—someone might hear—but I couldn’t help whimpering. Okay, maybe not so quietly, but I didn’t have the strength to endure this pain silently. I looked down, and the urge to scream grew even stronger: my right leg, from foot to knee, was wrapped in some strange vine glowing with green light, and the pain pulsed through my entire body.
Finally, the professor emerged from behind the firs and, upon seeing me, let out a rather colorful string of curses, the mildest of which was:
“What a reckless girl!”
Stepping cautiously over the grass, though I could tell he was agitated, Kolvin approached me, grabbed me by the shoulders and waist, and laid me down on the ground:
“Hang in there for a bit.”
Clutching my mouth with my hands and still whimpering pitifully, I nodded in agreement. A bright orb shot from his palm again, rising a couple of meters above us before unfurling into a transparent dome. The forest sounds abruptly faded.
“You can groan now, even loudly,” Kolvin muttered, tending to my leg. “No one will hear or see us now.”
I pulled my hands away from my mouth and started breathing heavily and rapidly:
“What… what is this—anyway?!”
“Be more specific with your question, Valeria,” he said calmly, continuing to work on my leg.
Glaring at him fiercely, I pointed at the vine-wrapped shin:
“Let’s start with this!”
He looked up at me, and I suddenly realized the pain in my body was gone; only a slight discomfort throbbed in my ankle.
“This?” His warm hand slid over my ankle, as if easing the last of the spasms. “A magical trap.”
“A magical trap!” I hissed. “And this?!” I jabbed a finger upward.
Kolvin lifted his eyes to where I was pointing, as if inspecting what was above us, and gave a sheepish smile:
“And that’s a magical soundproof dome, hiding us from our pursuers.”
“Aha!” I propped myself up on my elbows and stared at the professor, hoping to burn at least two holes through him with my gaze. “And you’re a wizard!”
He started to stand, lifting me into his arms at the same time:
“Consider me your personal one for today.”
Surprisingly, my leg didn’t hurt at all anymore, and I tried to wriggle out of his hold:
“Let me go, I can walk on my own!”
Kolvin only tightened his grip:
“You’re not walking anywhere. First, you still can’t put weight on that foot—that’s the point of a magical trap. Second, I’d rather carry you through any other traps myself, because with your luck and agility, you’ll step into another one.”
He hadn’t even finished speaking when, a few meters away, four of our pursuers emerged from behind the trees—the ones with that unpleasant woman. Instinctively, I wrapped my arms around the professor’s neck, probably too tightly, because he coughed:
“Are you trying to strangle me as revenge for all the exams at once?”
“You guessed it, Igor Dmitrievich. The setting’s perfect: a forest, just the two of us. If we don’t count those guys,” I nodded toward our trackers. “They definitely can’t see us?”
“Definitely. Not for at least the next hour.”
“Well, there you go,” I said, spreading a predatory grin across my face. “I’ll bury you right here.”
“How bloodthirsty of you!” he smirked.
“You’re the bloodthirsty one! You’ve drained so much of my blood…” I muttered, somehow without any real anger.
“I thought during exams you wanted to bite me.”
“During exams, I did,” I agreed, confirming his accurate observation.
Kolvin slid a strange look over my face, one that, honestly, made me a bit uneasy. He seemed to notice my expression and shifted his gaze to our pursuers, who disappeared behind the trees a couple of minutes later.
“Mad at me?” he asked, slowly heading toward the fir thicket.
“What do you think?”
“I can see that you are. But you know my subject better than anyone else in your class.”
I nearly choked on indignation and almost jumped out of his arms again:
“So you deliberately tortured me to motivate me in such a barbaric way?!”
“Careful, Valeria!” he laughed, tightening his hold on me again. “If I make one wrong step right now, moving forward will get a lot harder for us.”
“This is just pure torment!” I huffed angrily.
“What are you talking about now?”
“Everything! And your teaching methods in particular!”
“Judging by your level of knowledge, my teaching methods aren’t half bad. If I’d constantly praised you, I’d have been accused of playing favorites.”
“What?!” Blood rushed to my face, and sparks probably flew from under my eyelids—too bad they weren’t real.
Kolvin stopped for a moment and looked into my eyes with a rather serious expression:
“Did you hear that last word clearly?”
“Perfectly!”
“See,” he continued, moving forward again, “even you didn’t react to it very rationally. Now imagine the whole class and the other professors? The word ‘favorite’ would quickly morph into something else, something you wouldn’t want to hear whispered behind your back. And ruining your reputation was never part of my plans.”
Another wave of indignation mixed with a fresh surge of blood rushed to my already flushed cheeks:
“Oh, so I’m supposed to thank you for being so concerned about protecting my reputation?”
“That’s up to you.”
“Or were you more worried about your own?” I stared at him.
“Believe me, mine concerned me too, though to a lesser extent.”
It was always hard to tell from the professor’s face whether he was joking or serious. If there’s one thing I’ve figured out over the past four years, it’s that if Kolvin didn’t want to show his emotions, no one could guess what was really going on inside him. But sometimes, he did lose control, and today was one of those days: every now and then, the reins of the situation slipped from his iron grip. I kept catching odd smiles—sometimes sly, sometimes satisfied—or looks that practically scanned me. I could tell there was a real storm of emotions raging inside him. I just wished I knew what kind.
“You know,” I decided to poke the tiger a bit more, hoping that in the midst of his occasional growls at me, he’d let slip some real information despite his constant “later,” “as soon as we get to the end of this very unconventional adventure, I’ll make sure to craft a personalized medal for you: ‘For the Heroic Rescue of Woodpecker Sokolovska V.E.’”
“Don’t forget the woodpecker part, and you can confidently upgrade that medal to an order.”
I’d hoped he’d at least politely suggest dropping that word! Fine, woodpecker it is:
“Oh, come on, next you’ll say I stopped you from becoming an honorary blood donor!”
“And I’ve grown fangs too,” the professor snorted.
“I’ve never once gotten close to your neck in real life!”
Okay, I think I said the wrong thing, judging by how elegantly and dramatically one of Kolvin’s eyebrows shot up, giving his face a very ambiguous expression. I should practice that move in front of a mirror if I survive this, because he was staring at my neck way too predatorily:
“But I have a huge urge to get close to yours, Sokolovska!” he said in a rather menacing tone, considering this was level two irritation.
Feigning a bit of fear on my face, I glanced at him sideways:
“As in, to bite me?”
“Are you looking for some other meaning in my words?” he asked, quite sarcastically.
“Alright! I get it: the woodpecker’s overworked—it’s time to rest. Will the woodpecker get a nest?”
“Will this do?” The professor nodded somewhere behind me.
I turned to look: in a clearing among the firs stood a neat, cozy two-story wooden cabin. Though the second floor was more like an attic.
“Wow!” The woodpecker couldn’t help but express its feelings. “A little house!”
“Yup,” Kolvin mumbled, “on chicken legs.”
“Does it come with a Baba Yaga?” the chatterbox in me couldn’t resist.
Why did he have to look at me with such a meaningful stare? Though, I guess it’s obvious why. Probably for this:
“It will now,” he nodded and carried me toward the house. “Even the bony leg is accounted for,” he hinted at the immobility of one of my limbs.
The professor started climbing the steps while I huffed indignantly:
“I’m actually offended about the leg comment!”
The man slowed down at the threshold, looking at me in surprise:
“So, you’re totally fine with being Baba Yaga?”
“Well, compared to a doll with a silicone brain, Baba Yaga sounds like a compliment,” I said, deliberately pursing my lips and staring unblinkingly into his eyes, where, deep in the icy blue flecks, some sparks flickered. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were glints of hellfire.
He quickly looked away, pushed the door open with his shoulder, and carried me inside, setting me down on a perfectly comfortable wide couch:
“Want something to drink?”
I nodded affirmatively:
“And to eat, just in case.”
“Water first,” he smiled, “then everything else.” He looked at me like I was a mischievous kitten. “I’ll run to the spring for water. I trust that while I’m gone, you won’t try sticking your relatively intact limbs into anything else?”
Raising an eyebrow like a wing, I tried to mix a hefty dose of sarcasm into my smile:
“The best way to avoid cleaning up after guests is to tell them the house is rigged with traps. No one will even think of wandering around, let alone making a mess. You’re the epitome of hospitality, Igor Dmitrievich.”
Kolvin let out a hoarse laugh:
“You’re almost right, Valeria. But for now, all the traps are deactivated.”
I just threw up my hands:
“Exactly my point.”
At the door, he turned back:
“You’re an amazing girl,” a faint smile brushed across his sharply defined lips.
“Because I don’t throw tantrums?”
He didn’t reply and walked out. Suddenly, I felt a wave of sadness. The worst memories surged up, washing over me like a hot wave and sending heat prickling across my skin. Yeah, I don’t throw tantrums. Not anymore. Not since the orphanage. They beat that out of you quick there. Or break you…
“Barged in, tracked dirt all over, tossed the guest down like a sack, and took off. No ‘hello,’ no ‘see ya later.’ Just like a dragon: swooped in, swooped out! Where’s the decency in leaving a fine young lady all alone?!”
A quiet, grumbling voice with a rasp yanked me out of my thoughts, and I nearly jumped off the couch. The sound came from the doorway. I slowly turned in that direction and almost screamed: walking straight toward me was a creature about a foot and a half tall, with thick, snow-white hair tied back in a ponytail; a freckled face that somehow looked like a mix of a smiling child and a hedgehog—a tiny button nose, super upturned; huge brown eyes; wearing a knitted sweater and matching pants, and… sneakers. Quite the ensemble. As it moved closer, it picked up dust from the floor, and the dust instantly vanished.
It took me a couple of seconds to take in the bizarre sight. In the next moment, my hand instinctively grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at the creature. I, quite agilely, leaped up onto the couch, completely forgetting that one of my legs was out of commission (I even forgot which one), and perched on the backrest as if that could save me.
“Ohoho!” came a muffled sound from behind the pillow, which oddly hovered in front of the creature’s face. “Why’re you throwing stuff?!” it snorted, and the pillow, untouched by anyone, flew back onto the couch. “I’ll give you a zap if you keep causing trouble!”
And I really did get hit by some kind of shock—not too strong, but noticeable, right in the backside, nearly sending me tumbling ungracefully to the floor.
“Ow! Talk about fairy-tale hospitality!” I couldn’t help but snap, gripping the couch upholstery with my fingers. “Who are you?!”
The creature stopped about a yard from the couch, planted its fists on its hips, and brazenly stared at me:
“Koschei the Immortal!”
“Oh, sure!” I laughed nervously. “I can see that!”
“And who’re you supposed to be?”
“Baba Yaga!”
“Thought so, you’re all twitchy. Where’d you lose your broom, poor thing?”
“Stuck in the chimney,” I snorted, glancing hopefully at the door.
But my hope is a special kind of hopeless. What’s that saying? “Hope dies last”? Well, mine always drags itself to the final stage of agony, twitching in death throes, and its revival always depends entirely on my conscience, which, in turn, nastily whispers that it’s time to put the wretched faker out of its misery.
Meanwhile, the self-proclaimed Koschei started moving toward me again. I preemptively thrust a hand out (as if that would do anything!), practically pleading:
“Hey, couldn’t you just stay where you are?”
“What, you don’t wanna hug an old friend?” Its voice even carried a teary note—what an actor!
“Who’s an old friend to who here?!” I snorted, trying to recall anything from childhood fairy tales on the subject.
“Koschei to Baba Yaga! Or did you forget?”
“Oh, right! When I flew through the chimney, I hit my head—knocked the memory right out,” I said, deciding to play along in this amusing game of who can out-snark who.
“And who’s this flying through chimneys around here?” came that damn, long-awaited voice from the doorway, prompting me to hurl a pillow at it as soon as I slid back down onto the couch.
I’ve gotta say, the professor’s reflexes are top-notch—he caught it with one hand. And to my already hefty pile of questions, a whole train car with a trailer got added. His usually perfect hair was a bit mussed, and I think there was even a blade of grass in it; his pressed shirt was wrinkled, with a torn sleeve; his pants looked no better than the shirt, and there was a spot of blood at the corner of his mouth. He walked over to me and handed me a jug of water:
“Freshest stuff—straight from the spring.”
I reached for the long-awaited container, casually glancing over Kolvin again, and nearly pulled my hand back: what I’d thought was dirt from a distance turned out to be splatters of blood, as if sprayed across the light fabric of his shirt. I took the jug anyway, hoping my fingers weren’t trembling:
“Did you have to fight a buddy for this water?”
The professor looked at me with such a weary expression that I actually felt sorry for him. I suddenly wanted to pour him some water, fluff a pillow for him, and tuck him in with a bedtime story. He plopped down on the couch next to me and gave a crooked smile:
“Worried there’s another monster like me wandering nearby?”
I nervously sipped the cold water and muttered:
“Judging by your appearance, not anymore.”
“Oh, Dmitrich-Dmitrich,” the creature grumbled, “always fighting, never done fighting.”
“Vlasiy!” Kolvin shifted his attention to it. “Why are you scaring my guest?”
“Who’s scaring who, if you look at the root of it!” it snorted back and gave me a pointed look. “She called herself Baba Yaga!”
“And who called themselves Koschei?” I shot back, indignant.
I felt a sharp, probing gaze on my face. I turned: the professor was staring at me intently, as if studying every feature individually. He didn’t even try to hide it; he examined me slowly, and there wasn’t a hint of embarrassment in his look. Can’t say the same for me. I could feel my cheeks rapidly turning a deep shade of burgundy, while tiny, hot needles marched across my skin, generously pouring heat beneath it, dripping from each sharp tip. I don’t know how long we would’ve played the “Who Blinks First” game, but I caved, probably due to lack of experience:
“Are you okay, Igor Dmitrievich?”
The man frowned irritably:
“You’re repeating yourself, Sokolovska.”
What the hell?! That hated icy tone again! Even angelic patience wouldn’t hold up under this—let alone mine! What stung the most was hearing something like that after all the crap that had rained down on my unlucky head today:
“Are you so afraid of someone’s concern?!” I nearly hissed. “Scared it’ll knock that permanently frozen crown of the king of monsters off your head?!”
The surprise on the man’s face was truly priceless. He looked at me again, but the curiosity in his gaze was different this time. The break in the dark line of his brow, the slight squint of his gleaming eyes, the wandering smile—all hinted at… Well, he said it himself:
“You get so adorably mad that it makes me want to keep riling you up.”
While I flared my nostrils in indignation, the much more endearing Vlasiy, against this backdrop, shook his head mournfully and croaked:
“Ahh, well! I’ll pop over to Kilina’s for some pancakes with honey and kvass,” and then he vanished.
I, too, felt a strong urge to disappear right after him, but since dematerializing like that wasn’t in the cards for me, I just slid off the couch, once again forgetting about my useless leg, and nearly collapsed like a wounded deer. However, I was swiftly caught around the waist by strong male hands and plopped back onto the couch with a grumble:
“Where are you always rushing off to?”
“Anywhere—far away from you!” I wriggled out of his hot hands and scooted as far away as I could.
Twitching nervously, Kolvin stood up and headed to a small cabinet tucked modestly by a large window. After rummaging through its depths for a moment, the professor returned, holding a lilac-colored vial and once again studying me with silent thoughtfulness.
“What now?!” I couldn’t hold back.
“I need to treat your leg.”
The expression with which he said this didn’t sit well with me at all:
“Judging by your tone, this process is definitely tied to something that won’t bring me any pleasure.”
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” he said with a face that I liked even less. “All I know is that treating your leg under those tight jeans will be a bit tricky for me.”
I nearly choked on air:
“Meaning what?”
Kolvin sat down on the couch next to me, twirling the precious vial in his hands:
“The wonderful contents of this container need to be rubbed into your leg, starting from the tips of your toes and ending at your thigh.”
The professor was diligently burning a hole through me with his gaze, while I diligently averted mine to the side. All the words I knew got stuck somewhere in my throat and stayed there. Realizing I’d decided to stay silent like a partisan, he continued:
“Valeria, if you went to a trauma doctor and he happened to be a man, would you hop away from him on one leg just so he wouldn’t see what’s under your jeans? Trust me, he’s seen so many legs that all he sees are suffering limbs, nothing more.”
All of this was said in such an even, monotonous voice that I actually felt a bit hurt. No, I didn’t want the professor to be overcome with passion and pounce on me—though I can’t even imagine this block of ice in that role—but hearing my leg referred to as just a “suffering limb” wasn’t pleasant either. I reached for the vial:
“Wouldn’t it be simpler for me to handle my suffering,” I emphasized the last word, not intentionally but as it came out, “limb on my own?”
He grabbed my wrist:
“Not simpler, unfortunately for you,” he smiled. “Rubbing it in isn’t the whole process.”
“What, do I have to dance with a tambourine too?”
Kolvin laughed this time, surprisingly warmly:
“We’ll skip the dancing. You’ll see for yourself.”
“See what?”
“I’ll explain later.”
“You keep saying that magical word ‘later’ and never explain anything. Meanwhile, all these ‘laters’ have piled up so much…”
His fingers suddenly slid from my wrist to my palm, gripping it in his warm, masculine hand:
“Yes, I can imagine how many questions you have and how much it’s ‘blowing your mind,’ though,” he looked at me, and I could swear there was anything but coldness in his gaze, “your nerves are pretty strong.”
“They got toughened up in the orphanage,” I barely managed to say, holding back the lump rising in my throat, a lump that had grown so large I could hardly contain it after holding it in for so long.
“I know… now… I know,” he started speaking somewhat incoherently, which I’d never noticed in him before. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry?!” My ears must’ve been playing tricks on me. “For what?!” Now I was drilling into him with my gaze, slowly pulling my hand from his.
“For offending you on your first day of classes. I was catastrophically wrong, and frankly, I had no right to behave that way.”
“Why? What did I do to you?!” A cry, almost of despair, burst out of me unexpectedly, even to myself.
“Lera, I…” He leaned toward me, and from under his unbuttoned collar, that familiar pendant slipped out again.
My hand, probably remembering the unforgettable march of my legs going AWOL but completely forgetting it wasn’t a cat that walks by itself, instinctively reached out as if drawn by some force and touched the crescent moon with a finger. The room instantly flipped before my eyes, and through a haze, I heard a worried “Lera! Lera!” but I was sinking deeper and deeper. Complete darkness enveloped everything, pulling me into a soothing abyss. Images, sounds, sensations—all vanished. Only a distant hum, coming from nowhere, gradually grew until it turned into voices:
“…little cook!” a girl, judging by her voice about six years old, giggled.
“That’s a dumb comparison, and that word doesn’t even exist,” someone I definitely knew huffed irritably.
But from where? Those familiar intonations…
“Because it rhymes,” the girl continued, bursting with laughter.
“The rhyme’s terrible.”
“But it sounds good!”
“Enough chirping, little bird!”
“Chickadees don’t chirp; they twitter!…”
For a moment, a gaze flashed before me, but I couldn’t catch it…
Liquid poured into my mouth, and I had to swallow quickly to avoid choking. A voice cut through too loudly after the muffled haze that had plugged my ears for a while:
“Lera! Lera, can you hear me?”
“You’d have to be pretty brave, or completely out of your mind, not to hear Professor Kolvin,” I muttered a line he’d once thrown at one of my classmates who’d had the audacity to chat during his lecture, and I lifted my eyelids.
The professor’s face looked worried and… scared again?
“Got it,” he tried to smile. “Not only do you hear me, but you’re fully back with us.”
“And you’d rather I stayed gone?” I flicked an eyebrow in some vague direction.
Kolvin sighed heavily:
“I’d prefer you didn’t disappear at all.”
“Oh, my goodness!” came Vlasiy’s concerned voice as he materialized again in the middle of the room. “What are you doing, you scoundrel?! You’ve completely worn the poor girl out! Look at her—she’s wasting away!”
The little man, whoever he was, stood by the table, throwing metaphorical lightning bolts at the professor with his eyes. It seemed like he was ready to throw punches too, if his hands weren’t occupied with a pile of bundles wrapped in embroidered cloths. Looks like I’ve got a fan. Nice. I’ll have to figure out how to use this against Kolvin; it’s not like he gets to torment me all the time.
Smiling weakly (apparently, there’s an actress sleeping somewhere deep inside me), I murmured in a hoarse voice:
“Igor Dmitrievich, help Vlasiy set his bundles on the table—he’s struggling.”
Igor Dmitrievich just snorted at my remark, likely not buying the pained tone of the poor “child,” for which he was rewarded with a withering glare from Vlasiy, who independently… “transferred” the bundles to the table. I won’t even try to imagine how he managed that—I hope I’m not hallucinating. With his hands free, he shuffled over to me and, grasping my hand in his tiny ones, looked into my eyes with sympathy:
“Does it hurt anywhere, dear girl?”
“It hurts,” I whimpered and immediately croaked, “e-e-very-whe-e-ere…” because my body was suddenly pierced by pain from my foot to, it seemed, my brain, even worse than in the forest.
Watching me arch dramatically, Kolvin hissed some curse, shoved the vial into Vlasiy’s hands, unbuttoned my jeans, and yanked them off me in one swift motion. Any other time, my outrage would’ve known no bounds, but right now, the circumstances of my half-undressed state were the least of my concerns. All I wanted was for this pain to stop.
The professor began rubbing the oily liquid into my leg with surprising gentleness, starting from my toes. Gradually, as his hands moved up to my thigh, the pain receded downward. Once it stopped torturing my brain, my nose caught the scent of cedar, a hint of fir, mint, and something bittersweet and barely perceptible. I inhaled deeply, trying to identify the unfamiliar notes.
“That’s iris, Valeria.”
“Are you reading my mind?” I gritted through still-clenched teeth.
“No. It was obvious. The base notes are easy to recognize.”
The pain had retreated to my ankle, and I could finally relax my jaw at least:
“Irises don’t smell like that,” I lifted my head and… stared wide-eyed.
Kolvin wasn’t just rubbing the medicine into my leg: a glow emanated from his palms, absorbing into my skin, which also glowed faintly for a moment.
“These ones do,” the man smiled. “And I’ll explain that later too.”
“And what’s going on with your hands?” I shifted my gaze to his face.
“And what’s going on with my hands,” he nodded, not looking away.
I leaned back onto the pillow:
“I’m afraid one lecture won’t be enough to cover all this.”
“I’m used to it.”