Chapter 4: Healing Hands and Hidden Eyes
I woke with the memory of water still clinging to my lungs. The lake, the cold, the weight of nearly dying — it lingered like a shadow I couldn’t shake. Yet, the sun had risen beyond the palace walls, spilling pale gold across my chambers. Today, I decided, I would not hide. Today, I would act as the doctor I was in my other life, even within this fragile body.
Ana appeared with my gown, her expression careful. “Your Highness, breakfast is ready.”
I shook my head. “I’ll eat later. I have work to do.”
Her brows knitted. “Work, Princess?”
I smiled faintly. “Yes. Work. Come with me.”
She hesitated, then followed quietly. I led her to the physician court, the secluded wing of the palace where authorized palace residents and servants waited. Commoners from the outside had no access. Even inside the palace, only a privileged few could seek care — another cruel reminder of the empire’s inequality.
The physician court smelled of dried herbs, faint disinfectants, and the acrid tang of boiling medicines. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with jars and flasks, some labeled in careful script, others scrawled in hasty writing. A few assistants moved between tables, checking patients.
And there were the physicians. Older men with swollen egos, heavy robes, and expressions that reeked of superiority. They glanced at me as I entered.
“Princess Amethyst,” one of them barked, voice loud enough for everyone to hear, “I hardly think this is a child’s play! Why are you here? Medicine is no place for girls of delicate constitution.”
Another sneered. “You should be attending embroidery, not fevers and wounds. Do you even understand what you’re touching?”
I pressed my lips together, hiding my irritation behind a polite bow. “I am here to learn and assist where I can,” I said evenly.
A third physician scoffed. “Assist? Ha! You may call it that, but you’ll only make mistakes. We have treated patients long before your delicate hands were even born. Why invite disaster upon yourselves?”
Whispers spread across the room. The attendants and servants looked between us nervously, sensing the tension. Some seemed amused by the idea of the frail princess attempting real work; others, wary of what she might prove.
Perfect. Let them underestimate me. Let them believe I was fragile, incapable, a pretty toy to amuse themselves. I would not disappoint.
My first patient arrived: a noble child, eight or nine, flushed with fever. The attending physicians examined him briefly, muttering under their breath about ordinary colds and prescribing a weak herbal decoction.
I stepped forward, voice calm. “May I examine him?”
“Princess,” the lead physician said, smirking, “you can touch him lightly, if you must, but I doubt your hands can make any difference.”
I ignored the jibe. Kneeling beside the boy, I checked his pulse and temperature, noting signs they had missed: rapid, shallow breathing and faint pallor around the lips. Fever was only part of the story — infection could spread quickly if untreated.
“This is more than a simple fever,” I said, gently but firmly. “He may be developing an early infection. The decoction is insufficient; he needs proper care.”
The physicians exchanged glances, clearly displeased. One muttered, “Do you think you know better than men who have practiced decades?”
I met their gaze steadily. “I do. Watch and see.”
Reluctantly, they stepped aside. I applied a cooling poultice, adjusted the herbal mixture, and instructed attendants on hydration and rest. Within hours, the boy’s condition improved. The older physicians, their pride bruised, exchanged tight-lipped glances.
Next, a laborer arrived, clutching his arm — a deep wound that had been poorly tended. The attending physicians tried to dismiss it as minor, shrugging.
“Step aside,” I said softly. “This man requires proper care.”
One physician bristled. “Princess, your hands are too fragile! You will ruin him!”
I ignored him, cleaned the wound with boiled water, applied herbal antiseptic, and wrapped it carefully. I lectured attendants on hygiene, something the seasoned physicians clearly found beneath them. “Every hand that touches a patient must be clean. Infection spreads easily; negligence kills.”
By the end of the morning, the patient was stabilized. I had proven skill in spite of their boasts. Whispers of my competence traveled through the court, though I knew prideful men rarely admitted defeat openly.
Throughout the day, I observed palace patterns:
Who ignored patients?
Who cut corners for nobles?
Who might have motives to sabotage me or cover corruption?
I stored every observation mentally and in my journal. Knowledge was my weapon — skill, patience, and memory.
A few hours later, another patient arrived — a palace servant, pale and trembling, showing signs of chronic malnutrition and faint toxicity. The physicians shrugged, dismissing it as weak constitution.
I knelt beside her, noting brittle nails, sunken eyes, and slow pulse. “This is serious. Immediate dietary support is needed. We must review daily rations. This neglect is dangerous.”
One older physician laughed, shaking his head. “Princess, do you intend to lecture us on how to feed the servants? These children of labor are always frail; what difference does it make?”
I ignored him, carefully documenting her symptoms, administering safe herbal supplements, and instructing attendants. Slowly, her color improved. Even the boastful physicians had to acknowledge my results, though silently.
The day brought more cases. A young page had fainted after being forced to carry a heavy tray for the kitchen staff; a servant girl complained of recurring fevers after handling moldy grain; even a minor noble experienced allergic reaction to poorly stored herbs. Each time, the older physicians dismissed the patient or scowled at my interventions, muttering about “fragile sensibilities” and “arrogance beyond youth.”
I took careful notes. Not just about the patients, but about the physicians: who whispered behind my back, who grudgingly followed my instructions, who was blatantly dishonest or careless. Every observation was a clue — a map of power, corruption, and human frailty within the palace.
By mid-afternoon, the physician court buzzed with a mixture of awe and resentment. Whispers circulated: the frail princess was competent, precise, and daring. I had healed, instructed, and exposed negligence, all while maintaining decorum and humility.
As the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the court, I allowed myself a moment to rest. I looked around — servants recovering, minor nobles cautiously respectful, and the older physicians silently acknowledging my skill, their egos bruised but unbroken.
Yet danger lingered — the lake, the whispered threats, the near-death attempt. Proving myself as a doctor was only the beginning. The real investigation had to continue.
I gathered herbs, prepared for contingencies, and reflected on my dual life: princess by title, doctor by skill, investigator by necessity. The palace physicians had been a test, and I had passed, but the real danger awaited.
I whispered to the empty hallway:
I am Laurine Samaniego. I am no longer just Amethyst. And I will not die again.