The woman’s long skirts rustled as she folded her arms over her crisp apron. Her heavy-set brow furrowed as her frown deepened.

‘Oh,’ said Gray, brilliantly, like he hadn’t noticed her glowering at him the second he’d crashed in there. ‘Hi.’

‘By the soul of Clochaint,’ she said, her voice as deep and thuggish as her appearance - fine clothing and jewellery aside, ‘what do you think you’re doing?’

Gray stared at her, his mouth hanging open, his heart still thudding a frantic beat in his chest. He'd do anything he needed to stay inside for a few minutes. His gaze swept over her again, desperately searching her expression and body language for clues on what he’d done wrong.

‘Help is provided during the day,’ said the woman.

Stepping forward as though to slam Gray out of the door like the bruisers in the tavern would with troublesome drunks, the woman continued, ‘unless it’s urgent. Is your life in danger? Are you dying this very instant?’

Words seemed to have flown from Gray. He couldn’t step out into the street just yet. The soldiers would see him.

He opened his mouth, he made to speak, but nothing came out.

A knock on the head wasn't exactly an emergency. He wasn’t bleeding, no bones were broken, and despite the hammering of his heart, it wasn’t going into failure. His fading injuries and skinniness aside, he was kind of the picture of health.

The woman pounced on his hesitation.

She stopped three feet from Gray and pointed her finger at the door. ‘You have no right to burst in here uninvited. This is not a hotel. It’s not a pub. This is a workspace and a home. You disrespect Master Mage Powl's protocols.’

‘Protocols?’ Gray managed to say.

He was rooted to the spot, his mouth dry and his pulse banging against the knock on his head from the barrel. He glanced over his shoulder at the door.

She edged closer, but only barely. She pointed again at the door, as though Gray was a small child being sent to the corner.

‘No mask,' she said. 'No appointment, no history of which ports you’ve travelled. Your person and clothing has not been checked for vermin. You have tracked dirt into a sterile house. You - you …’ She faded out, her gaze on his face. It was on his hands. His ankle, as though she could see through the layers of cloth.

‘I’ll clean it,’ said Gray. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You can’t clean it,’ she said. ‘I have to clean it. Master Mage Powl will know. There’s a specific technique.’ She paused. ‘You’re injured.’

‘Sort of,’ said Gray.

The woman heaved out a sigh. She seemed to be chewing on her tongue as she peered at Gray with her set of observant brown eyes.

‘Make an appointment,’ said the woman, ‘with the receptionist. She'll be here during business hours. You may leave before I call the guards.’

But, he couldn’t go out onto the street.

Not yet.

Gray edged forward, reaching his hand out to stop her turning away. ‘You’re - not a healer?’

The woman furrowed her heavy-set brow. ‘Do I look like a mage to you?’

‘I,’ said Gray, ‘you …’

She didn't look like a mage, but, as Gray knew, not having high cheekbones or bright eyes didn't rule her out.

The woman paused, her frown deepening. ‘Have you been mind cursed?’

Gray pressed his hand against the side of his head where he’d just been whacked.

‘No,’ he said, feeling like he should be insulted, but fear was tearing through him that the soldiers would crash through the door behind him any second, they’d figure out he’d ducked in here and hadn’t run down the street.

And if the soldiers were here, Killian had to be disconcertingly close.

He couldn't stand here, lingering by the door.

And neither should she.

‘I’m only an assistant,’ said the woman, edging closer and taking in every inch of Gray. ‘One hundred percent bonafide human. There’s no mage healers in town right now. None at all. It's a city-wide disaster. There’s a physician, only twenty minutes walk away, but he won’t be open yet.’

‘Right,’ said Gray faintly. ‘Look,’ he said, because she was keeping her distance and he thought maybe it was important judging by her tirade, and maybe - just maybe - it might convince her to allow them both to move the heck away from the threshold, ‘I haven’t sailed in from a port. I’ve never set foot on a boat.'

The woman heaved out an aggressive breath. ‘What happened to you?’

‘I,’ said Gray, ‘got hit in the head. By a barrel of squid.’

The woman clucked her tongue. She seemed to be having a strong internal battle. ‘For Clochaint’s sake. Come in, I’ll look at you.’

‘I,’ said Gray, ‘ I can’t pay.’

The woman shot him an odd look. ‘Which country town did you just roll out of?’

‘Uh,’ said Gray.

‘Have you never been to see a mage healer before?’ she said.

‘No,’ admitted Gray.

‘Well,’ she said, hustling him into a long hall. ‘I’m a mage healer’s assistant. I’m paid by the crown.’

-

For a sterile, windowless room, it had an overwhelming buzz of magic.

Gray could feel it pulsing from the array of bottled and corked potions stored on the shelves on the opposite wall.

Aside from a small sink on the other wall underneath a scattering of framed certificates - all bearing the name Master Mage Powl - and another set of shelves cluttered with some sterile looking instruments, the room was bare.

Gray dropped his rucksack onto the floor.

The assistant pushed Gray onto the examination table.

She was brusque and busy, barely glancing at Gray, not even bothering to close the door to the windowless room, and instead digging through the shelves with the instruments and jars.

‘You’ve been in the wars,’ she said. ‘What have you done to your leg?’

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Gray wrenched his attention away from the alluring magic of the potions on the shelves. He didn’t care about his damn leg, or the whack to the side of his head. Not really. He only cared about those soldiers outside in the street, and he was on tenterhooks as he listened for any sound they might be coming through the door.

‘It’s OK,’ Gray muttered. ‘Just the ankle.’

‘You don’t need me to check it?’ she said.

‘Er,’ said Gray distractedly. He paused in his listening for the soldiers. He couldn’t come in here, pretending to be begging for a healer, and then act like he wasn’t interested.

He needed to be calm. Let himself be tended to, but listen for the telltale crash of Killian kicking down the door.

And then what? He’d run? Hide? This room only had one exit.

Gray chewed the inside of his lip. He’d essentially trapped himself.

‘It’s fine,’ he said.

The assistant dumped a variety of jars onto the examination bed beside Gray. Her brown gaze lingered over his face, his neck, and down to his hands, and then back up to his face. She stilled, for the smallest moment, her hand on the days-old wound on Gray’s temple from the mugger.

Her intelligent eyes held onto Gray’s. Her heavy brow knitted.

He blinked and lowered his gaze.

The assistant turned on her heel and closed the door behind her, shutting herself and Gray inside the windowless room.

She dallied there for a moment before returning her attention to Gray.

‘How far do these injuries go?’ she said. ‘They on the rest of you?’

Gray hesitated.

‘Shirt off,’ she said.

She raised her eyebrows, waiting.

Gray grabbed the hem of his shirt, uncertain why his insides had turned to ice all of a sudden. He knew what the damage was under there, and it wasn’t shamefully bad, honestly, his head and ankle were the worst of it, she wasn’t a kingdom soldier, she wasn’t a leering or sneering an oily catcall, and perhaps it was just the cold clinicalness of it all, how she so easily and professionally saw everything with just one glance-

She reached out to stop Gray, her hands on his wrists. ‘Never mind. I can work around your clothes.’ Her tone had shifted, as had her air, to something that had too much understanding and Gray wasn’t entirely sure that he hadn’t preferred the brusque briskness.

She examined his hands, his head and his eyes, gave him a vial of sweet smelling potion and watched him closely as he drank it.

‘How do you feel?’ she said.

The effects of the potion eased through his body, loosening knots and soothing inflammation. His thrumming caution and anxiety was falling away like sand through his fingers. The throbbing in his head from the barrel whack dulled to something like a light tapping of fingers that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

Gray cleared his throat. ‘Good.’

Her gaze lingered and then she deftly applied some kind of cold oil to the knocks on his head.

‘What happened to your arm, there?’ she said, pointing her chin at the healing cut peeking out of Gray’s rolled-up sleeve. ‘Looks nasty.’

Gray drew in a controlled breath. ‘Scissors.’

She moved onto Gray’s leg, picking up a jar of pulsating green paste and placing it close for easy reaching. ‘Can you roll up your trouser leg for me?’

He was on the verge of telling her not to bother, that his ankle was fine, and really he should be going now.

But, she’d been fast so far, and maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have his ankle looked at if she was going to be as speedy with it as she had been with everything else.

Gray swiftly rolled up the leg of his pilfered trousers, exposing his bad ankle.

It was a riot of colourful bruising and swelling.

‘The wound on your temple,’ she said, easing off Gray’s - Alistair’s - shoe with nimble fingers and unexpected gentleness, ‘who healed that for you?’

Gray gritted his teeth as she kneaded his ankle. He pushed down rising curiosity and surprise at her perceptiveness and concentrated on keeping his voice even. ‘Uh, I don’t remember his name.’

She shot Gray a glance. ‘Well, he did a very good job. I’ve never seen anything like it. High Master Mage level. Higher, even. Yes?’

‘Perhaps,’ Gray said, focusing on breathing in and out as she massaged the paste from the jar onto his now on-fire ankle.

‘A mage healer with a skill like that,’ she said, ‘Master Powl would know them. She probably trained under them.’

Gray gave a non-committal sound.

‘Whoever he is, he likely saved your life. A blow to the temple like that …’ She finished kneading the ointment into Gray’s ankle. ‘You reported the assault?’

Gray shifted on the table, his stomach clenched, and his cheeks growing warm and uncomfortable. ‘They - they know about it, ma’am.’

Rolling Gray’s trouser leg back down, she said, ‘Better?’

Gray experimentally bent and wriggled his toes. Relief filled him, and something light and warm spread through his chest. Better was an understatement. It felt almost normal.

‘Loads,’ said Gray, feeling a genuine smile light up his face. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’ll need more sessions. Master Powl could heal it in one go, in a heartbeat. Without her …’ The assistant briefly met Gray’s gaze. ‘It’ll take three or four more days. You can come back?’

It would be very unwise for Gray to come back to anywhere he’d visited. He wasn’t exactly sure how the tracking jinx worked, but one strong possibility was it left a trail for Killian to follow.

Gray was hit with a surge of overwhelming regret for walking through this door. He’d be bringing trouble to this assistant who’d done nothing but help him.

‘Anything else?’

‘No,’ said Gray, hopping off the table. ‘Thank you. I can’t - thank you enough.’

He teetered on the edge of warning her that she should perhaps leave Sirentown as her master mage had done, at least for the next few days.

She lowered her voice as she bundled up her jars from the table. ‘This isn’t the first time an apprentice mage has been attacked and it won’t be the last. You need to have your guard with you. There’s poachers in this city.’

All the potion's warmth and pleasantness fast crumbled within him.

‘Master Powl’s potion,’ said the assistant. ‘It gave you away.’

Gray grabbed up his rucksack, swinging it over one shoulder.

‘It has a high level of magic,’ she said. ‘Most normal people have a reaction. They get magic sick, they’ll get tremors or sweats.’

‘Is that so,’ Gray said. He crossed the room swiftly and tugged on the door.

It was locked.

Gray spun on his heel. He was aware on the fringes of his mind that he wasn’t as anxious as he should’ve been, and his natural caution had all but disappeared and his confidence was beginning to soar as high as a hawk flying above the clouds. Was this from the potion, or was it because he was feeling better than he’d done in days - hell, years - and the weight of grief was gone from his chest and shoulders, and gods, his confidence was fair soaring higher -

‘What’s your name?’ She watched Gray carefully.

‘Keep.’

‘That your first name or last?’ she said.

Confidence made him state his name baldly, it was taking away any nuance from his speech, but it didn't matter because he didn't need it. He squared his shoulders, looking her straight in the eye.

‘Gray Keep,’ he said, ‘is my name.’

‘Stat papers?’ she said.

‘Stolen.’ Gray resisted the urge to tug on the doorknob again, just to be sure. ‘Look, I need to leave. I have to go, now.’

‘I know every mage family,’ she said. ‘Got a great memory for names. Not one of them is a family named Keep.’

‘Because you’re mistaken,’ said Gray, bowing his head.

‘Are you a Drake? A Roseheart? Urkskin?’

She was getting irritated. Gray wanted to get out.

‘I’ll be seeing them all in less than a week at the guild summer festival,’ she ploughed on. ‘That is, if Master Powl decides to turn back up.’

‘Right,’ said Gray.

‘I can help you search for your family if you’ve been separated by them.’

‘I’m not looking for my family,’ said Gray, keeping his tone polite. He didn’t - and nor did she - need to turn this conversation ugly despite anger building within him at being denied his leave. He’d be just fine, he’d handle whatever was thrown his way. ‘Thank you-’

‘Why are you hiding?’

‘This is a misunderstanding,’ Gray lied easily. There was no usual warming of his cheeks at the lie.

‘You’re,’ she said, ‘going to be in serious trouble with the Grand High Master, mage. You’re not permitted to cut your hair like that or wear clothes like that. I’m trying to help you-’

‘Then let me go,’ Gray said, keeping his temper. ‘And you should go, too. They’ll come looking for me. They’ll be here any minute, probably.’

‘Who’s they?’

Gray stared at her, pressing his fingertips against his thighs, and his breath slow and controlled.

The assistant glared back, her overbite more pronounced in her agitation, and her heavy brow drawn low. There was a stain from the green paste on her crisp apron.

‘You should leave when I do,’ said Gray. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You think that scares me?’ said the assistant.

‘I’m not trying to scare you,’ said Gray. ‘I don’t want to bring you trouble.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Open the door.’

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Fine. Go. This city’s trouble. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’