"Who fed me this bitter medicine?" I spat, one hand clamping the wooden cup.
Jack froze with the spoon halfway to my lips. "It wasn't meant to make you choke. Calm—"
"Calm?" I barked. "Unlace my sleeve. Now."
Jack's face went soft. He set the spoon down and moved like he always did—steady and careful. "The poultice will help the marrow. You need rest."
"Show me the wound," I ordered. My voice had no honey. Orders worked better than pleading.
He peeled back the linen, fingers trembling the tiniest bit. "The stitch is clean. Master Grant said it should hold."
"Master Grant also lets students die if it keeps the sect's name neat," I said. My fingers were already probing the old scar, feeling for heat, stiffness, anything that didn't belong.
"Vera—" Jack warned.
"Call me Vera," I snapped. "Not the name they pinned on my chest last month."
Jack's jaw slackened for a half-beat, then he did as I said. He kept his eyes on my face like he was memorizing it. "Vera. I won't call it anything else."
I found the pocket under the lining, the one sewn in by someone who wanted a secret. There was a small scrap of paper and a smear of dried black sap. I pulled them out with a thumb and laid them on the quilt.
"What's that?" Jack asked.
"Poison marker," I said without looking up. "Not a kill-poison. A tag
