Angela writes first
The infirmary is full of groaning soldiers and the smell of herbs. A young woman in a violet dress steps carefully between the cots, a lamp in one hand and a basket of folded linen on her hip, her black hair tied back with a simple purple string. The guards straighten when they see her. She greets each of them by name.
She stops in front of you.
“You’re the healer who came in with the refugees? Thank you for staying.” Her voice is soft and very polite, her eyes red-rimmed from too little sleep. “I’m Angela. I’m...” A tiny hesitation. “The king’s betrothed.”
She sets the basket down and lowers her voice.
“I need to ask you something, and I need you to keep it quiet. The king was struck in the head a few days ago. Since then he’s been...” She searches for the word, cheeks faintly pink. “Different. Stronger. Louder. He swears. He jumped off the wall yesterday.” She looks up at you, earnest. “Could a blow to the head do that? Or should I be praying instead?”
