I knew the bruises would fade, and the cuts and broken bones would heal. But the bruising belied the bigger problem—Tabitha had punched Violet square in the face with her superhuman strength. I hadn’t seen all of it, but I had watched the video Violet had recorded using a button camera on her shirt. I had only seen Tabitha’s fist moving, followed by the sickening sound of flesh on flesh and Violet’s cry of pain. It was a miracle Violet was even alive after that hit.
I sat for a minute, running my hand over my face. I was exhausted, my eyelids heavy. I needed to shave—nothing new there—and I was deeply worried about Violet. I had hoped that, unlike me, she would be able to sleep until we figured out some way to ease her suffering with more than just painkillers. Unfortunately, things hadn’t gone according to my plan. Her panic in the dining room, no matter how justified, was uncharacteristic of her, confirming what the doctor had feared: her concussion was much worse than we’d thought. He had warned me about this. If we didn’t get her to a hospital soon…
I pushed the grim thought aside. I couldn’t dwell on that. It sent too much fear through me, which in turn made me frustrated and angry. I wanted to do something—anything—that would help her, but we were flying blind here. We barely had any information about what was going on; the tickers were still down, confirming Thomas’ assertion that the damage in the palace had affected them, and even with Tabitha likely dead, I knew with certainty Elena was not going to take this lying down.
Not to mention, Tim was missing. That alone terrified me, not only for Violet’s sake, but for Tim’s as well. I had grown fond of Violet’s little brother. He was an apt student who had borne the brunt of his isolation and the experimentation he’d suffered with a resolve worthy of my respect and admiration. The young man was resourceful and smart, just like his sister, so I had to believe he was all right. I just needed to know where to find him. I hated not knowing almost as much as I hated knowing someone I was responsible for was missing, possibly injured… or worse.
Behind me, there was a soft rap on the door. I turned, the bedsprings squeaking under my shifting weight, and saw Amber standing there, concern stamped on her features. Behind her was Dr. Arlan, the middle-aged Patrian man we had… coerced into helping Henrik, who had been shot during the battle at Ashabee’s with the Matrian wardens. Dr. Arlan was tall and lanky, with a thick brown beard and brown eyes. He kept his brown hair cut close to his head, so you could barely see the thick waves in it.
Amber’s eyes flicked to Violet in a silent query.
“She’s sleeping again,” I said as I stood up.
“I guess that’s good,” Amber said, though her expression remained dark and weary. “People have been asking about her ever since you guys got back. Jay. Ms. Dale. What’s-his-face… her cousin. At least now I have a good excuse to keep them out of here.”
I nodded appreciatively. “Yes… It might not be safe to bring a whole bunch of people in here just yet. We still don’t know… We don’t know…”
I trailed off with the words if she’s going to make it hovering at the tip of my tongue.
Dr. Arlen seemed to take that as his cue, and stepped into the room, moving over to the bed. He pulled out a penlight and shined it into her eyes, pulling them open one at a time. Violet groaned and twitched at the intrusion but, worryingly, didn’t wake.
I crossed my arms and leaned against the desk, waiting and watching closely as the man took her pulse, then pressed his fingers against her skull, probing gently. After he finished his examination, he stood up and turned toward me, his expression stoic.
“She needs to go to a hospital,” he said. He had been saying that since his first examination.
“We’re working on it,” I replied with a tight nod.
Dr. Arlan’s expression shifted from neutral to disapproving. “Stop working on it and do it. Or else this young lady will die. She has a severe concussion—that’s why her pupils are uneven, though it looks like there’s no major damage to her eyes. Her ribs are probably bruised, but they don’t look broken—that horse doctor you talked about wrapped up her wrist pretty good. The worst thing is, her skull is fractured, which means there’s likely bleeding into the brain. Depending on how fast the bleed is, her condition could deteriorate very gradually—she may lose functions slowly—or it could be over in only a few days. She needs surgery, and I don’t have the tools or the space to do it here.”
I held back my frustrated reply, one full of colorful language, and nodded. “We’re working on it,” I repeated.