Page 95 - Fourth Wing

The door swings open and Winifred, a healer who has been at my side too

many times to mention, stands back so Dain can carry me in. “Another
injury? You riders certainly are trying to fill our beds to— Oh no, Violet?”

Her eyes fly wide.

“Hi, Winifred,” I manage over the pain.
“This way.” She leads us into the infirmary, a long hall of beds, half of

which are full of people in rider black. Healers do not have magic, relying

on traditional tinctures and medical training to heal as best they can, but
menders do. Hopefully Nolon’s around tonight, since he’s been mending me

for the last five years.

The signet of mending is exceptionally rare among riders. They have the
power to fix, to restore, to return anything to its original state—from ripped

cloth to pulverized bridges, including broken human bones. My brother,
Brennan, was a mender—and would have become one of the greatest had

he lived.

Dain gently lays me onto the bed Winifred brings us to, then she leans
into the edge of the mattress, near my hip. Every creased line in her face is

a comfort as she strokes a weathered hand across my forehead. “Helen, go
get Nolon,” Winifred orders a healer in her forties walking by.

“No!” Dain barks, panic lacing his tone.

Excuse me?
The middle-aged healer glances between Dain and Winifred, clearly torn.

“Helen, this is Violet Sorrengail, and if Nolon finds out she was here and

you didn’t call him, well…that’s on you,” Winifred says in a deceptively
calm tenor.

“Sorrengail?” the healer repeats, her voice rising.

I try to focus on Dain through the throbbing in my shoulder, but the room
is starting to spin. I want to ask him why wouldn’t he want my shoulder

mended, but another wave of pain threatens to pull me into unconsciousness
and all I can do is moan.