The Princess and the Alchemist - Part 12

The Princess and the Alchemist - Part 12
The servant obeyed, running back toward the exit. Lissandra stayed by the child’s side, holding her hand. She could feel the small, uneven tremor, the blood running down her fingers.
Agon opened a vial and poured alcohol over the wound. The sharp scent filled the air. The girl whimpered, but he didn’t hesitate. He cleaned the blood, checked the depth of the injury, and with tweezers, pulled out splinters of wood lodged in the flesh.
“She’ll need stitches,” he murmured.
Lissandra nodded, unmoving. Time seemed suspended. Her hands stayed firm, pressing the cloth against the wound while Agon sewed with thin threads and quick, precise movements. Luckily, he had those in his case, too. After all, he was still a doctor’s assistant.
For a moment, the sound of drops falling from the ceiling returned, mixing with their heavy breathing. The tension between them had vanished, replaced by something purer: absolute focus. No gesture wasted, no word unnecessary.
When the servant came back with the hot water, Agon dipped the cloth and wiped the last traces of blood. Then he checked the girl’s pulse.
“She’s stable,” he said, his voice gentler.
Lissandra exhaled slowly, unaware she’d been holding her breath the whole time. She met his eyes, and for a second, the distance between them ceased to exist.
The tension finally dissolved. The air inside the greenhouse felt lighter, as if the space itself had been waiting for that moment. Steam rose in soft waves, blending with the scent of alcohol, soil, and life. The girl now breathed steadily, her arm bandaged, her face still pale but calm. Lissandra, kneeling beside the table, felt the child’s pulse beneath her fingers—weak, yet constant.
Agon straightened up, putting the instruments back in his case. His hands trembled slightly—not from fear, but exhaustion. When he finally looked at Lissandra, his gaze was different: tired, yes, but touched by a quiet respect.
“She’ll be fine,” he said, voice rough.
Lissandra nodded, brushing the girl’s forehead. “You were fast.”
“There wasn’t time to be slow.” He wiped the bloody cloth and tossed it into a bucket. “If we’d waited, the cold would’ve done the rest.”
She watched as he washed his hands in a basin. The sleeves of his coat were stained red, yet every movement was precise, as if those hands could never lose control.
“You talk and act like life depends only on skill,” Lissandra said. “But there’s something more in what you do. Something that can’t be taught.”
Agon paused for a moment without turning. “What I do is simple: keep what can die from dying. The rest is chance.”
She smiled faintly. “Chance—or maybe you just care more than you claim to, even if you say you prefer plants to people?”
He finally looked at her, golden eyes gleaming under the diffused light. “Guess I’ve been caught.”
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of pause where both understood they’d reached the edge of what could be said—and maybe, what they wanted to understand about each other.
Lissandra stood, adjusting the cloth over the child’s arm. The blood no longer flowed. The once-biting smell now faded into the humid air. Outside, the wind blew warmer, carrying the sound of drops falling from the roof.
“Do you hear that?” she asked.
“What?”
“The thaw.”
Agon tilted his head, trying to catch the sound she mentioned. The dripping was rhythmic, soft—a slow heartbeat from the earth.
“Winter’s giving in,” Lissandra said. “I think the plants will recover.”
“And us?”
She turned to him, surprised by the question.
Agon went on, fiddling absentmindedly with the bottles. “They say cold preserves, but it also puts things to sleep. Maybe it’s time to wake what’s been trapped in it.”
Lissandra watched him for a few seconds before replying. “Not everything that sleeps should be awakened.”
“And yet, everything wakes when spring comes.”
She looked away, but his words lingered. It wasn’t just about plants. Or winter.
Outside, the sky began to lighten—not the full gold of daybreak, but a gray slowly dissolving. Lissandra opened one of the upper windows, and a chill swept through the greenhouse. The warm air mixed with the outside breeze, creating a strange sensation—not of heat or cold, but of transition.
Agon stepped closer to the plants. Some leaves, once drooping, had lifted slightly. The veins of the moon-herb, somehow miraculously, glowed faintly again, as if time itself had shifted seasons inside that place.
“See that?” he said, pointing. “They don’t die easily. They just wait for the right conditions.”
Lissandra moved closer, looking at the plant she’d fought to save. “Like people, then?”
“Not always,” Agon replied. “Some die inside and still stand.”
“Good thing there are people like you who care for them, even when you claim to prefer plants.”
She looked at him, and the words struck deeper than he cared to admit. Something in her expression—the way her face caught the dim light, refusing to let it go—disarmed him.
“Maybe,” he said, “some just pretend to die until someone cares enough to save them.”
Lissandra lowered her eyes, a soft smile on her lips. “Are you talking about plants or people, Agon?”
He hesitated, then answered with the same calm tone he used to hide his truths. “Plants, of course. They’re less stubborn.”
The brief laugh that followed wasn’t their usual ironic one. It was quiet, genuine—born from relief, and maybe from shared understanding.
The servant returned soon after to take the girl. He thanked them sincerely, promising to tell her family that it was the royal physician’s young assistant who saved her. Agon just nodded, avoiding any grand gesture. Lissandra walked him to the door, watching him vanish down the path toward the palace gates.
When she turned, Agon was already packing up. The vapor in the air had become a fine mist, almost golden under the late-afternoon light.
“Thank you for coming,” she said softly.
He stopped mid-motion, looked at her for a moment, and replied, “Whether your brother likes me or not, your plants have nothing to do with it. If you need my help again, don’t hesitate to ask. And if it’s something like that child’s case, don’t think twice.”
She blinked slowly, caught off guard by his words. Agon closed the case and, without another word, walked to the door.
The latch clicked, and when the door shut behind him, silence returned to the greenhouse. Lissandra stood still for a moment, looking down at the floor where the child’s blood had mixed with the soil. The dark red was fading now, leaving only a faint stain.
She knelt, touched the still-damp earth, and felt the cold retreat under her skin. The air inside was no longer the same. Neither winter nor spring—something between, as if the season itself hadn’t yet decided what to be.
She looked up and saw, through the glass, the waning moon already visible in the pale sky, though it was still day.
Slowly, she rose and walked to the bed where the moon-herbs grew. The leaves trembled faintly, as if recognizing her touch. She ran her fingers along one of the veins and saw the glow returning—faint, but stronger than before.
She stayed there for a few minutes, just watching. The plant, the air, the ground. Everything seemed to return to normal again. And in that stillness, Lissandra thought that maybe life wasn’t defined by the absence of cold, but by the strength to bloom after it.
Outside, the thaw went on. Water ran over the stones, the garden smelled of living earth, and the world, little by little, began to pulse again. Inside the greenhouse, Lissandra remained alone—and yet, she didn’t feel lonely. The breeze coming through the window carried the faint scent of the laboratory, mixed with the promise of a new season.
Trista did not own her life.
He wouldn’t stop her from seeing Agon again.