“I am looking for the man who rebuilds what others discard,” the messenger panted, his gaze fixed on the interior of the warm hut. They say in the city that a ghost lives here. A ghost with the hands of a god.
Yusha’s blood ran cold. “You are looking for a beggar. I am a simple man.”
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“A simple man does not perform a cranial trepanation on a woodcutter’s son and save his life,” the messenger replied, stepping forward. My master is in the carriage. He is dying. If you breathe your last at your door, this house will be reduced to ashes before dawn.
Zainab approached Yusha, her hand resting on his arm. She felt the frantic vibration of his pulse. “Who is the master?” she asked in a firm, cold voice.
“The Governor’s son,” whispered the messenger. The brother of the girl who died in the Great Fire.
The irony was a physical burden. The same family that had haunted Yusha to death, that had reduced her life to ashes, now huddled in a carriage on her doorstep, begging for the life of their heir.
“Don’t,” whispered Zainab as the messenger retreated to find the patient. They will recognize you. You will be taken to the gallows as soon as he is stable.
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