The silence had been thick, then it cracked the moment I looked at Clara. She didn't flinch away, though her eyes had that tired gleam, the one you only see when someone has been smiling too long to hide the exhaustion.
"They want to bury me with fake patients," she said in, calm voice, but I caught the sharpness hiding inside it. "Cheaper healers lined up outside, throwing out treatments that look flashy. They make the crowd laugh and clap while my work is dismissed as too slow, too careful. Then, when the fake patients leave my place, they go write lies. Poison dripping into the ears of everyone who will listen."
I leaned my chin into my palm, watching her speak. There being a fire in there. Clara never shouted; she never had to. But I could see the toll. Her hands, steady as ever, had the faintest tremor. She was too proud to admit it, but the lies cut deeper than anything.
