The Palace of Lost Memories by C. J. Archer

Author:C. J. Archer [Archer, C. J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 0648214877
Amazon: B07FKBHRJP
Publisher: C.J. Archer
Published: 2018-10-09T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

Palace guards were conspicuous throughout Mull that afternoon and evening. They paid particular attention to the Row, questioning its occupants about Zemayans. Every one of our patients arrived with the news and an opinion on what it might mean.

"Seems the guards are as subtle as their captain's name," Father said to me after the final patient left. He eased himself onto a kitchen chair with a groan.

I dipped a clean cloth into the basin of water and passed it to him. He patted it over his brow and the back of his neck. "You're working too hard," I said. "You should have allowed me to see the last patient. It was only a few bruises."

"Possible cheek fracture," he said. "And I didn't like the look of him."

I ladled broth into a bowl and set it before him. "You're judging your patients on their looks now?"

"How else am I supposed to judge the ones I've never met before?" He dipped his spoon into the bowl and tasted the broth. He pulled a face and inspected the bowl's contents. "It's watery."

"I wanted a change from fish, but prices of beef and mutton are outrageous. I only bought a little."

"Good girl. You're wise to save at the moment."

"Why?"

He pushed the bowl aside. "In my experience, if a man looks like a thug, he usually is a thug."

"We're still discussing that, are we?"

"That man looked like the biggest bruiser in the village," he went on. "I don't want you anywhere near him, Josie." That explained why he'd sent me to the kitchen as soon as he'd laid eyes on the man who'd filled our doorway. "Judging someone on appearances might not seem fair to you, but you've lived a sheltered life, and you don't know what bad men look like."

They looked like the men who'd followed me in The Row, but I didn't tell him that. I didn't say anything. He was in the sort of mood where it was impossible to reason with him.

"Mull is changing, and we must change with it," he said. "Or leave."

I paused, the spoon halfway to my mouth. Surely he couldn't be serious. "Mull is our home. We're not leaving. Stop talking nonsense and have your soup. If you're not going to let me help you every time a strange man walks in the door, you're going to need your strength."

He drew the bowl toward him then after a hesitation, dipped the spoon in. We didn't speak throughout the rest of the meal and only spoke afterward out of professional necessity.

The arrival of a man carried by another two interrupted our evening routine. The injured man was unconscious, his hair matted with blood. His two companions may have been able to walk, but they sported cuts and bruises on their faces.

"Josie, go to the kitchen," Father said, directing the men to take the unconscious patient through to his surgery. "Boil some water."

"I'll bring it in when it's ready," I said, turning to go.

"I'll fetch it myself. You stay in the kitchen.

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