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The witch collapsed before he could knock
You saw him through the front windows of the ward, tall, his witch hat dipped low over pale hair, coat hanging from one shoulder. He tried to straighten when he saw you.
You caught him under the arms as he collapsed.
He weighed less than you expected. “Sir? Can you hear me?”
His breath came hot against your temple. His lashes fluttered, raven against skin gone faintly gray. There was a travel bag at his feet, mud on the hem of his coat, and a folded card held so tightly in his hand that his glove had creased around it.
“Bring a stretcher,” you called over your shoulder.
A night nurse came running. The man tried to speak while you eased him down. His voice scraped out in a whisper. “Apologies.”
Then he fainted.
After triage, his chart landed under your name for fever, infected burn, observation.
The staff learned very little from his pockets. His card was sealed, the ink smudged where sweat had dampened the paper, but the name was visible.
Qifrey.
Under it sat an atelier seal for an atelier several towns away and the name Olruggio in a different, heavier script. On the back, in a heavier hand, someone had written, “If he says he is fine, he is lying. If he says he can walk, make him sit. If he asks for thornbark, ignore him.”
You sent a runner with the message as soon as you finished checking him in. The road had been damaged by a landslide two towns over, according to the courier desk. Whoever Olruggio was, it would take time to even inform them because your small village didn't have any resident witches.
The first runner came back with mud-covered knees before sunset. The bridge past Lannor was split, the lower road had sunk, and the courier desk would need another route before any message reached the atelier.
Over the next two days, during your nightly rounds, you heard Qifrey murmur names in his sleep. Coco. Tetia. Richeh. Agott. Sometimes Olruggio, lower, rougher, with a strain that made you pause beside the bed.
The names meant nothing to you, but his voice did.
Qifrey needed a lot of help—by the second night, his chart had three extra pages clipped to it.
He had a fever that refused to break, a cough that tore through him even while he slept, and a burn across his palm that looked several days old. It had been treated poorly. By himself, you guessed, after seeing how clean the bandage had been despite the infection underneath. A man used to handling trouble alone.
On the third day, you cut away the spoiled wrapping to change the bandage, as you had been doing daily since his arrival.
He stirred then, face pinched with pain.
“Can you hear me, sir?”
His hand flexed in yours, his voice rough from disuse. “Mm. I hear you.”
“You are in St. Gillian’s ward. You passed out at the door.”
“That seems… inconvenient.”
“You picked a good door.”
A small breath left him. It might have been a laugh.
You washed the wound, set herbs to draw down the swelling, and fed him medicine by the spoon when his fever didn't let him swallow easily.
By fifth morning, Qifrey’s fever had settled into a stubborn heat rather than a blaze. He woke while you were changing the water at his bedside.
His visible eye opened first—clear blue, tired, and assessing.
He looked at the ceiling, the window, and the medicine tray, then at you.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice rough but better than before.
You stared at him for half a second.
Most patients woke up confused, angry, frightened, or all of it. Qifrey woke as though he had been invited to a formal breakfast. “You remember where you are?”
“A clinic?”
“Hospital ward.”
“Ah. Better funded than I feared.”
You sat on the stool beside him and checked his pulse. His skin was still hot. He watched your hand as though your work interested him.
Once you were done, he gave you a mild smile.
You looked down at his pulse before your face gave you away.
“I sent word to the atelier listed on your card,” you said instead. “Someone named Olruggio was mentioned. The roads are caved in next town over, so a reply still may take a day or two.”
His face changed from smiling to serious. “Did the message say I was stable?”
“I sent it when you arrived so it said you were under care.”
His fingers clenched in the sheet. “That will make him angry.”
“Concerned?”
Qifrey looked toward the window. “With him, the two travel together.”
You took his temperature and pretended that answered anything.
For the rest of the day, he slept between treatments. By evening, he could sit up against pillows, so you brought tea because the ward broth had been rejected with such gentle sadness that you had felt bad for him.
He accepted the cup with both hands carefully. “Thank you.”
“It may taste medicinal.”
“I have survived worse things.”
“You say that as if you mean it.”
Qifrey’s eye lowered to the steam. “I do.”
You shouldn't have pried, should have gone back to the desk, finished your chart, and taken your meal before it went cold.
“What went wrong?”
“I misjudged a cough.”
“And the burn?”
“Misjudged a flame.”
“Careless for a Witch Master.”
He smiled into the cup. “You wound me.”
“You arrived wounded.”
“A fair correction.”
You chuckled before you could stop yourself.
He looked pleased, though he hid it by drinking.
The next evening brought more improvement. He could walk from the bed to the chair by the window with your hand under his elbow. His hair bobbed in uneven waves, white and soft from fever sweat. You washed it for him in a basin because he lacked the strength to lift both arms.
He endured the indignity with great dignity.
“You may complain,” you said, working soap through the ends.
“I am trying to decide how.”
“Most people start with the water temperature.”
“I hate water.”
“That may be the fever talking.”
“No, I just hate it in general.”
You poured clean water through his hair and watched his shoulders loosen. “You talk around everything. It’s like you are deflecting.”
“I talk through things. Around them takes more effort.”
“Do you have family?”
The question came out because you had spent the afternoon thinking about Olruggio’s name on that card. Because Qifrey said it in sleep with the same exhausted care people used for loved ones. Or maybe because you were a fool.
His shoulders stilled for a breath.
Then he said, “There are people waiting for me.”
“That was also around the question.”
“Yes.”
You should have taken the answer for what it was. Instead, you felt his silence settle between you and chose the safer thing. “You have students.”
“I do.”
“Those names you said in your sleep?”
A small smile touched his mouth. “My apprentices.”
“You worry them?”
“I am afraid so.”
“You seem habitual at that.”
His laugh came out soft and tired. “One of my oldest habits.”
You dried his hair with a towel. He sat patiently, head bowed. The back of his neck looked vulnerable. You moved your hands with professional care, and your chest did the foolish work of skipping a beat.
That evening, you brought tea again. He asked about you.
It wasn't anything new, patients asked out of politeness all the time. Qifrey listened as though each answer fitted into a private ledger.
You told him about the hospital. About training under a surgeon who threw instruments when angry. About the old woman in room four who lied about her sweets. About your rented rooms above the bakery and the landlord’s whiskercat who had claimed your spare chair.
Qifrey laughed at that. “A whiskercat recognizes vacant authority.”
“He bites doctors.”
“Then he recognizes false authority as well.”
You looked at him over your cup.
“You would get along with him.”
“High praise.”
“It was a warning.”
He held the cup near his mouth, smiling.
The next day, his fever broke.
You found him awake before dawn, sitting at the side of the bed with his coat folded across his knees. His hand shook when he tried to fasten a clasp.
You leaned against the doorway. “Planning an escape?”
He looked up, guilt neatly arranged into charm. “Need to perform an assessment.”
“Of the hallway?”
“Of my general readiness.”
“You are terrible at being a patient.”
“Many have said so with greater volume.”
“Olruggio?”
Qifrey paused.
Then he gave a helpless little smile, fondness slipping through before he could tuck it away. “Most often, yes.”
“Your next of kin has strong opinions.”
“He has earned the right.”
Your heart did a small flip because Qifrey looked at you with such warmth after. Then again later, when you brought him lunch, he mentioned noticing that you seemed to dislike thornbark. Then again at tea, when he asked whether you ever left the ward before the lamps were lit and when you said rarely, he told you you were allowed to be cared for without becoming less productive.
It sounded rehearsed in the sense that he had probably said it to children before. Children, friends, himself, perhaps.
You adored him for some reason after that.
By late afternoon, the senior physician cleared him for a few hours out of bed. The hospital had a small courtyard used by staff during breaks. You took him there because he asked for air and because you had poor discipline where he was concerned.
He walked slowly, tried to hide the weakness from you and failed. At the bench, he sank down with a controlled breath.
“You see?” he said. “A flawless expedition.”
“You are sweating.”
“An atmospheric detail.”
“You made it twelve steps.”
“Thirteen. You miscounted.”
“You counted?”
“I needed a victory.”
You handed him tea from the kitchen pot, thinned with milk to spare his throat. He held it between both palms and watched the courtyard gate.
“Will Olruggio be upset when he comes?” you asked.
“Yes.”
“You sound pleased.”
“I would rather face his anger than his fear.”
That was the first honest answer he gave you without deflecting.
You sat beside him. “What is he to you?”
Qifrey turned the cup slowly. “My person.”
The words came with care.
“Family?”
“Yes.”
The courtyard seemed smaller after that.
You looked at your own cup. “I almost invited you to dinner.”
“You still may.”
You glanced at him, startled.
He met your gaze with an expression so gentle it hurt.
“Or not,” he added.
There it was again. The step back. The offered dignity. The chance to recover without being seen.
You took it because he gave it willingly. “Then I am inviting you to dinner tonight at the staffroom table as a patient who owes me for ruining three sets of sheets.”
His eyes crinkled with a smile. “I accept with gratitude.”
Dinner happened in a quiet manner because Qifrey tired faster than he admitted. You brought rice, broth, pickled vegetables, and a small cake from the bakery below your rooms. He ate slowly like a man who had learned to make small comforts last. You talked about ordinary things because ordinary things had become precious with him.
He asked about the town. You asked about teaching.
He told you about a girl who loved picture books and questions, another who spoke with boldness she had earned through fear, another with an eye for beauty in small work, and another who needed rules to push against before she trusted them.
“You seem to love them a lot.” You smiled.
He looked down at his plate. “I try to be worthy of them.”
The answer made your throat tighten. “You are.”
“You have known me only a few days.”
“I have cared for you. That speeds judgment.”
His laugh loosened, warmer now.
You thought of saying it then—so please write to me or some adult version with a chance for refusal and less humiliation.
The words rose, reached your mouth, and died when footsteps pounded down the corridor.
Someone shouted at the front desk. A man’s voice, rough with fear. “Where is he?”
Qifrey stood so quickly his chair scraped back.
His face changed.
Every soft, evasive line vanished. He looked shaken open.
You followed him into the hall.
A man stood at the far end, travel cloak hanging off one shoulder, dark hair loose, hands clenched as if he had been holding himself together. His eyes found Qifrey, and the anger you had expected was there.
So was terror.
“Qifrey.”
“Olruggio,” Qifrey said.
Olruggio crossed the corridor before anyone could stop him. He caught Qifrey by the shoulders, then checked him with furious, trembling care—forehead, pulse, bandaged hand, face.
Qifrey let him. In fact, he more than let him. He leaned into it for half a second, small and human in a way he had hidden from you.
“You sent a card?” Olruggio snapped. “A card? I got ‘under care’ and a hospital mark, and the road was out. Do you have any idea how worried the kids were?”
“I am sorry.”
“You are a complete idiot.”
“Yes.”
Olruggio groaned in frustration.
Qifrey smiled at him, tender and tired. “You came quickly.”
“I know.” Olruggio’s hands froze on Qifrey’s sleeves. His voice dropped. “You scared me.”
Qifrey lifted his bandaged hand and rested it against Olruggio’s wrist. “I know.”
You stood by the staff room door, and the ward clerk came up beside you and whispered, “Is that his husband?”
The word sank through your chest with force.
Husband.
You looked back at the two men.
Olruggio had turned halfway toward the desk, still keeping one hand on Qifrey as if the floor might swallow him. “Who treated him?”
You stepped forward because your muscle memory knew work even when your heart lagged behind. “I did.”
Olruggio crossed to you. Up close, he looked exhausted. “Thank you for keeping him alive.”
“It was the ward, really.”
“It was you.” His voice softened. “He is skilled at making people underestimate how bad things are.”
Qifrey, from behind him, said, “I can hear you.”
“Good. Hear it and improve.”
You managed a smile. “He needs rest for another few days. The fever broke, but the infection needs watching. His hand should be cleaned twice daily. He should avoid travel until the physician clears him.”
“I will make sure of it.”
Qifrey’s mouth curved in a wider smile. “You say that as if I am difficult.”
Olruggio turned on him. “You are sleeping.”
“In a bed, yes.”
“In a bed where I can see you.”
The intimacy of it had no flourish but domesticity—it stood in the hallway with muddy boots and a travel bag. It belonged there. They belonged together.
You handed Olruggio the written care instructions.
That night, you sat with tea that had gone cold on the staffroom table.
Qifrey came to find you before settling back into bed. Olruggio hovered far away at the corridor turn, pretending to inspect the wall while watching every breath Qifrey took.
“You didn't come for your nightly round,” Qifrey inquired.
“I was giving you time.”
“That is kind.”
“It is practical.”
His expression gentled. He understood more than you wanted him to. Perhaps he had understood from the first cup of tea.
“I owe you dinner,” he said.
“You owe me rest.”
He looked at you for a long moment.
“You are very easy to speak with.” He said it gently, and with that same small step back he had offered every time you reached too close.
“That sounds impulsive, coming from you.”
“It may be.”
“Then keep it for your husband.”
Qifrey’s eye lowered. He accepted the small hurt because you had earned the right to.
“I will,” he said instead. “And I will remember your kindness.”
You gave a short nod.
Behind him, Olruggio called, “Qifrey. Bed.”
Qifrey sighed with theatrical patience. “You see my situation.”
“You seem well taken care of.”
His smile faded into gratitude. “Yes.”
He returned to Olruggio. The other man scolded him under his breath the whole way back to the bed, one hand firm at his back. Qifrey listened with his head slightly bent, smiling as though each complaint was a love letter.
You went to the staff dining room and cleared the cups.
The cake sat half-eaten on the plate. His fork had left a neat mark through the icing.
You washed everything by hand, slower than needed.
In the morning, you would check his fever, teach Olruggio the bandage fold, and write the discharge notes as usual. Tonight, you scrubbed icing from the fork until the silver squeaked.
Down the corridor, Olruggio’s voice rose again. “You are laughing? You think this is funny?”
Qifrey answered, too soft for you to catch.
Then Olruggio said, lower, breaking around the words, “Do that again, and I swear I will lock your boots in the oven.”
Qifrey laughed then, small and real.
You closed your eyes.
You had wanted to ask him to stay.
Someone else had already crossed blocked roads and broken bridges to bring him home.