Although my informal job title is “runner,” I am not actually permitted to run in the halls. Since most of our requests come in during the workday, the palace corridors are typically busy with other people rushing to and fro, so running would create a danger to myself and others, even if it would result in quicker deliveries. Thus, the compromise between efficiency and safety is a brisk walk.
I have, however, become keenly familiar with the mazelike palace layout in the past few weeks. So much so that, cutting slightly against the advice of Martha, who prefers that I stick to the main corridors for all of my deliveries, I have identified a few choice shortcuts through guest wings and service hallways. I reckon Martha knows that I take these shortcuts, because my delivery times are often reduced by nearly half, but she says nothing. What I like most about my shortcuts is that they are often deserted. I might pass a maid or common errand-boy, but no one else. This means I can walk a little faster, maybe even jog. Or—if the coast is clear—use the momentum of my cart to take a ride.
When my delivery cart is full of papers, it can readily pick up speed, to the point where I barely have to push; and if it is fast enough, I can hop my feet up and let it coast along for the length of the hallway, or until slowing down. Childish, I know. When we were young, Lucienne would have me push her wheelchair to the top of a slope, hop up onto the back, and push off for both of us to ride all the way down. We engaged in this activity exactly twice. The first time worked just as intended; the second time flipped me head-over-heels into the dirt and resulted in several broken bones and an unsalvageable wheelchair. I do not run such a risk with my file cart, though. It is heavy enough not to flip me and our runway is a flat, even surface. And especially at the end of the day, when my feet and legs are aching from miles of walking, I will take a childish reprieve over none at all. And, I will admit, coasting on the cart is pretty fun.
But perhaps my accident with Lucienne should have served as an omen. It is not long before I regret my simple fun.
It is near the end of a very long day. I was kept up late last night by several requests from Prince Ezra, the bane of my existence, and snatched only a couple hours of sleep. My day began early because Emerlane was departing on a military campaign and needed a package of maps delivered before sunrise, and King Edwin III had a tense debate with an advisor that required no less than ten separate trips in two hours.
By four o’clock, I am utterly drained and intensely irritable. As if to add insult to injury, my father just sent in a request for four whole boxes full of files, weighing down my cart so much that it creaks under the burden. I have two preferred routes to Edgar’s office. The faster one, the proper shortcut, weaves through a narrow service hallway that will be difficult to turn a heavy cart. The second route is slower, but uses the long corridor of a rarely-used guest wing. I opt for the second. At the threshold, I pause and take a deep breath. No one is around, not even a maid. So I get a running start, building up speed, and hop onto the cart to coast.
The cart rolls straight and true, propelled by its momentum. Briefly, I allow myself to close my eyes. Sunlight, beaming in from the paned windows, flickers across my face. The wind whips through my hair like I am flying. With my feet momentarily relieved of their aching, I can imagine that I am poised on the bow of a ship, that I can smell salt on the breeze, that I can hear the cawing of gulls, that I can feel the spray of ocean waves upon my cheek…
I open my eyes just as one of the guest room doors open, and someone steps out into my trajectory.
“Oh shit!” I yell.
There isn’t enough time to avoid the collision. The cart, at full speed, threatens to ram into my victim. In that split second, I try to slow it down by dragging my heels on the floor, but this could not go any more wrong—my ankle twists, I hear a sharp SNAP!, and I lose my grip on the cart. I crash to the ground. Papers fly everywhere.
“Are you okay?” exclaims a man’s voice, and I am about to retort that no, clearly I am not okay, when I see his face.
You have got to be fucking kidding me.
It is none other than Jarl Thorunn, the Northman, my executioner in one life and savior from trampling in the next. He instantly recognizes me too, as an expression of concern turns quickly to surprise. His storm-gray eyes flicker down to my ankle, badly twisted at an unnatural angle. I try to move it, but the pain makes my head reel.
“We…have got to stop meeting like this,” I manage. “It’s getting…progressively more dangerous.”
Clearly, Thorunn is just as shocked as I am. “Suppose so,” he laughs breathily, and for the second time in this life, leans down to carry me in his arms.
Despite the shattering pain in my ankle, I ask Thorunn to take me back to the records department before even thinking about a doctor, knowing that someone else will need to fulfill the delivery request. I am trying to mitigate as much damage as possible. Not damage to me—damage to my job. Despite my valiant attempt, Martha is not happy. Thorunn lowers me down to a couch in the department’s break room and kneels by my side as Martha…well, does what Martha does. Which is lecture me.
“How on earth does this even happen?!” she exclaims. “Never, in my forty-one years of service in this department, has a clerk broken her ankle on duty!”
“It was just an accident,” I murmur, already knowing that will not be enough.
“An accident! How? Were you riding the cart like a bloody carnival ride? And this happened where? You know full well you are not to bring records through the guest halls, Miss Odric; even when you think there are no guests there, for reasons exactly like this.” She turns to Thorunn and takes a deep breath. “Good sir, I do apologize for my clerk’s reckless behavior. This is unprecedented, and I—I simply cannot fathom why she would do such a thing—”
“Do not apologize. This accident is my fault, and mine alone.” Thorunn stands. His head nearly scrapes the unusually low ceiling in the break room, and he shoots a curious glance up to it before turning back to Martha.
“How is that?” she asks, incredulous.
“Your clerk did nothing wrong,” says Thorunn. “She was in the guest hall, but well out of the way. I was the reckless one—I was rushing to a meeting and pushed the cart in a brutish fit of rage. I did not realize it would tip over and crush her. So I am the one who should apologize.”
Martha is still seething, but the Northman’s sudden apology and narrative seem to have confused her just enough to dampen her fury, alongside the rather disarming fact that he towers over everything in the room. “Well,” she sighs. “If you say so.” Then she turns and strides out of the room, and I hear her calling down the hall: “Where is Nigel? Someone, find me that boy. We are down a runner…”
“Should I fetch a doctor?” Thorunn asks me.
I shake my head. “Martha will call for one.”
He frowns, clearly doubtful. “She will?”
“She is…a little rough around the edges,” I chuckle, “but she does care for us. She wouldn’t forget to call for a doctor. And…she wasn’t wrong; I did act recklessly.” I hesitate, then add, “Thank you for covering for me.”
Thorunn nods, but says nothing. Almost at once, I regret telling him that Martha will call for a doctor, since the alternative soon becomes plain: that Thorunn stays here with me, steeping in the profound awkwardness. He does not come across as much of a conversationalist, which is a bit of a relief, because neither am I. But a lack of shallow conversation means that the silence turns nearly stifling, such that, if it were not for my broken ankle, I would stand up and pretend to be busy with something.
It is like Thorunn has read my mind. Abruptly, he goes for the door, then stops. “I—should get you something,” he says haltingly. “Are you comfortable? Do you need anything? A pillow? Ice?”
“Um…ice?”
“Ice. Right.”
He leaves, then after a minute, returns empty-handed, seemingly having realized while he was gone that there is an icebox in the break room. He wraps a chunk of ice in a towel and holds it in place on my ankle. The pain of contact vastly outweighs the meager cooling effect of the ice, but I refuse to say anything and pretend that it helps.
Before long, the palace doctor comes with his kit of supplies and an arcane tome. I have suffered broken bones before, mostly in childhood mishaps like the one with Lucienne’s wheelchair, but have never had a bone healed by magic. Magical healing is overwhelmingly expensive, a luxury that I only ever tasted in my life as a merchant. The tomes and components are allegedly quite rare. For most people, it is far more cost-efficient to let the body heal in its normal course, supported by the practical medicines and assistive devices that our ancestors used for aeons before the discovery of magic. Since I am still lower-class, even with my fancy new job title, I would expect to just get my ankle set in a plaster cast and hope for the best. But, as Martha explains, it will be less expensive to pay for the magic than for the other clerks to cover my shift for six to eight weeks.
“This way,” she continues, “you should be back on your feet in…a day or two, isn’t that right, Doctor?”
The palace doctor sits on a stool, examining my broken ankle with gloved hands. A tiny nebula of white energy circles around the injury, which is starting to bruise terribly, but has stopped hurting—numbing magic, maybe. “Ideally, yes, for a nondisplaced fracture,” says the doctor. “But the bone has lost its alignment, and fragmented in two distinct places. I’m afraid Miss Odric’s recovery will be closer to a week.”
Martha is still very upset. My ankle might very well heal before her trust in me does. But she doesn’t say anything, possibly because throughout the entire examination, Thorunn has not left the room. Perhaps it is a good thing that he seems to like me—he is an effective meat shield between me and my manager’s displeasure.
“Whatever the cost of the loss,” Thorunn cuts in, “I will cover it.”
Martha looks like she wants to protest for manners’ sake, but she is as shrewd as she is strict, and such a generous offer of responsibility would tempt any business-minded woman. “Thank you, my lord, I will consider it. Doctor, do what you need to do. Miss Odric, I suppose I have no choice but to let you take the rest of the day off. Report to me first thing in the morning.”