By the time I turned ten, I began to understand that Father was right.
People started complaining about him to my face.
"Your father is the reason my grandma died! Liar! Fraud! You should die!"
This was the same person who had always said, “Thank you, thank you,” and praised the effectiveness of the medicine Father, also an apothecary, prepared.
"Father told you the usual medicine wouldn’t work anymore and that you’d need a dragon’s heart to cure her, didn’t he?"
"Shut up! What kind of healer is he?"
It’s always Father’s fault. Always the healer’s fault.
If someone dies, it’s somehow on us.
There’s no miracle medicine, made from common herbs, that can extend an elderly person’s lifespan indefinitely.
This is nothing more than misplaced anger.
Grief-stricken people lashing out.
But why must we always be their targets?
"If you wanted to save her that badly, you should have brought a dragon’s heart."
"Shut up! Be quiet! It’s your fault my grandma died!"
"No. If you’d brought a dragon’s heart, Father could have made a good medicine and saved her."
"Shut up!"
No one can bring a dragon’s heart, nor can anyone afford one.
So, we’re to blame.
This man simply doesn’t want to face the fact that his grandmother’s death isn’t our fault.
So I told him:
"If you’d taken her to a clinic that charges a hundred gold coins, even your grandma could’ve been saved. What a heartless family."
I said it before he could.
People like him always say the same thing:
"You heartless wretch!"
"One silver coin."
"Huh? Wasn’t it two copper coins yesterday?"
"The price has gone up."
When someone doesn’t like what’s happening, it’s always the “high-paid healer” whose prices rise in the market.
That’s the signal.
"Then I don’t need it."
The next customer after me would pay two copper coins.
That sort of thing happens all the time.
"No town is any different. Let’s move again."
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