Chapter 1: The Governor’s Mysterious Ailment

I know absolutely nothing about medicine, but somehow everyone in the governor’s mansion insists on calling me a miracle healer. Go figure.

Honestly, it cracks me up—me, someone who can barely tell Tylenol from Tums at the best of times, suddenly being treated like some backwoods wizard. Every time I walk down those grand old hallways, I half expect someone to hand me a stethoscope or a chicken bone and ask me to pull off a miracle right there in the hallway. The kitchen staff have this running joke that if I ever actually cured a cold, it’d be by sheer dumb luck. Sometimes I think they expect me to start chanting over a pot of soup.

Whenever the governor spots me, he always says, “Doc, lately I keep getting these wild rushes of spring fever, and I can’t control it.” He gives me that look, like he’s talking about something a little more interesting than allergies. Spring fever, huh? Sometimes I wonder if he’s being coy or if he just likes watching me squirm.

He says it with that sly, half-embarrassed grin, like he’s hoping for a cure but also wants to keep it hush-hush. His voice drops, and he leans in a little too close, like maybe the wallpaper’s got ears. Honestly, the staff can’t get enough of this. They snicker behind their hands every time he brings it up, whispering about the governor’s mysterious ‘spring fevers.’

“The mysteries of the world aren’t mine to share, sir, but I do have a way to help.”

I always say it straight-faced, like I’m quoting some ancient Appalachian proverb, though honestly, I stole it off a fortune cookie. It works, though. People in this place eat that stuff up.

The governor’s favorite, Miss Delaney—kind of like the head lady-in-waiting, only prettier—comes to me: “Doc, ever since my maid hit her head, she’s been acting like a whole new person, saying the craziest, most rebellious things.”

Miss Delaney always looks so perfectly put-together, pearls just so, but you can always tell she’s nervous by the way she wrings her hands. She lowers her voice, glancing around like the walls might tattle. I have to admit, it’s a little theatrical.

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By now, I’m pretty sure they expect me to say that. It’s my signature line, my one-size-fits-all answer. I swear, if someone came in with a broken leg, I’d probably say it out of habit. Old habits die hard.

Only the governor’s kid—young master Mason—isn’t buying it. He thinks I’m full of it, and he doesn’t bother to hide it.

He’s got that sharp, skeptical look you only get from reading too many Hardy Boys mysteries and not spending enough time outside. Every time I walk by, he narrows his eyes like he’s waiting for me to pull a rabbit out of a hat.

That is, until one day, he shows up, cheeks red as a tomato: “Doc, I think I… I’m sick too.”

He can barely look me in the eye, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt like a little kid caught sneaking cookies. For a split second, I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. Poor kid’s not as tough as he pretends.

Late at night, the governor shows up at my door looking like he’s seen a ghost. His face is flushed, eyes shining with unshed tears. He nearly scares the life out of me—I nearly drop my tea. It’s that bad.

The clock’s just struck midnight, and there he is, looming in the hallway, looking like he just walked out of a haunted house. I clutch my mug of chamomile tea a little tighter, heart pounding.

“Sir, I sell my skills, not my body!” I blurt out, half-joking, half-serious, because honestly, with the look he’s giving me, who knows what’s about to come out of his mouth? I wish I was kidding.

The governor tugs at his sleeves, fidgeting with his cuffs, looking absolutely mortified: “Doc, I’ve got a problem I can’t talk about.”

He glances down at his shoes, shuffling like a kid caught sneaking out after curfew. The silence stretches between us, thick and awkward.

“My body just feels weird.” He says it so quietly, I almost have to lean in to hear him. For a second, I wonder if he’s going to confess to stealing cookies from the church bake sale.

According to him, a few days ago during the morning staff meeting, he was sitting up straight, listening to updates about the county line, when all of a sudden, this strange tingling shot up his back. His knees buckled, his whole body shook, and he nearly fell right off his chair.

He paints the picture with a kind of desperate honesty, gesturing with his hands like he’s reliving every mortifying second. I try not to laugh, but honestly, I can picture it: the governor, usually so poised, nearly face-planting in front of the entire staff. That must’ve hurt his pride something fierce. Poor guy.

“I’m not some creep, it’s just… it feels like there’s an invisible hand… kneading me.” He’s practically whispering now, eyes darting around like the wallpaper might judge him. If this weren’t so serious for him, I’d be rolling on the floor.

“And lately it’s getting worse. It can happen anytime. If this keeps up, I’ll be walking funny.” He tries to laugh it off, but the worry in his voice is real. The tension in his shoulders is plain as day, and he keeps shifting his weight from foot to foot. The man’s at the end of his rope.

As he talks, his eyes get red at the corners. The usually strict and serious governor now looks like a kicked puppy, staring at me for help. I almost want to hand him a tissue.

It’s the kind of look that makes you want to pat him on the back and tell him everything’s going to be alright—even if you have absolutely no clue what’s happening. I bite back a smile.

I put on my best poker face, flipping through an old medical textbook. “Sir, this is resonance.”

I make a show of thumbing through the pages, even though the book’s just a battered copy of Gray’s Anatomy I picked up at a yard sale. Still, ‘resonance’ sounds impressive enough to fool anybody.

“What’s resonance?” He leans in, all wide-eyed and clueless, like a kid asking why the sky’s blue. I almost feel bad for him. Almost.

Resonance…

Resonance is the kind you read about in certain romance novels… You know the kind—the ones with covers you hide under your mattress and only read with a flashlight. I can’t say that out loud, though—not unless I want to get run out of town.

I think about it and decide not to explain it to him. Sometimes, a little mystery is safer for everyone.

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But I do know the source of your problem. Sir, you should check if any of your household ladies have picked up a new pen lately.” I drop the hint as casually as I can, crossing my fingers he’ll put two and two together. Pens don’t usually cause this much trouble, but in this house, anything’s possible.

“Pen?” The governor rubs his temples, looking totally lost. “What’s that got to do with a pen?” He looks at me like I just started speaking in tongues. I just shrug, letting the mystery dangle.

I just smile and keep quiet. Sometimes, keeping your mouth shut is the best medicine. Let them stew a little—it makes the cure seem all the more miraculous.

He sighs. “Never mind, I don’t get you anyway. I’ll leave it to you.” He sounds defeated, but there’s trust in his voice, too. I’ve pulled off enough small miracles that he’s willing to let me work my ‘magic’ again. Not bad for a fake doc.

“You’ve solved so many headaches for me. I trust you.” There’s a warmth in his words that almost makes me feel guilty for not actually being a doctor. Almost. I stifle a grin.

With that, he supports his lower back and shuffles away, walking kind of sideways. I watch him go, trying not to laugh at his awkward gait. The man’s got the dignity of a statesman, but tonight he’s walking like he just spent the afternoon on a mechanical bull.

The next day, pretending to run a free clinic, I make the rounds of the mansion to investigate. I’ve got my old leather satchel slung over one arm, and I wave at the staff as I pass, putting on my best ‘concerned physician’ face. It’s all about the performance in this place—nobody questions you if you act like you belong. Ha.

Sure enough, I catch the culprit—Miss Lila Hawkins of the Magnolia Suite. She’s perched on her window seat, sunlight glinting off her honey-blonde hair, looking every bit the picture of Southern charm. Her room smells faintly of magnolia and lemon cookies, and there’s a stack of notebooks on her desk, covered in doodles and half-written poems. I can’t help but smile.

She’s the youngest daughter of the local judge, just moved in last year—delicate and pretty, with an innocent, lively personality, still got a little kid in her.

She has that wide-eyed curiosity that makes you want to protect her, but I know better—those are the ones who find trouble quickest. She’s always skipping down the halls, humming to herself, getting into mischief. Bless her heart.

When I arrive at her rooms, she’s waving around a new purple pen to her friend, Sarah Dean.

The two girls are giggling over something, their laughter bubbling out into the hallway. Sarah’s got freckles and a sly grin, always the first to sniff out a secret. The place feels alive with their energy.

“Sarah, look! This pen is pure white, smooth and warm like porcelain, and the best part—”

She holds it up like it’s a magic wand, her eyes shining with excitement. I can tell she’s been dying to brag about it. She’s practically glowing.

She grins, “It writes without any ink!” Her voice jumps an octave, and she waves the pen back and forth like she’s performing a magic trick. Sarah’s mouth drops open in awe.

She pulls out a sheet of notebook paper and starts scribbling. The pen glides across the page, leaving behind a trail of shimmering, silvery ink. The girls gasp in delight, marveling at the way the marks dance in the light. It’s like watching fireworks on paper.

I focus on her small, fair hand gripping the pen. The ink oozes out, swirling into shapes that are a little too… suggestive. My heart skips a beat. There’s something about the way the ink flows—too smooth, too eager, almost alive. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Stop, girl! I want to shout, but I bite my tongue. She’s got no idea what she’s playing with. Not a clue.

Do you even know what you’re holding? If she did, she’d have dropped it faster than a hot skillet. But innocence and curiosity are a dangerous mix.

Never mind, she definitely doesn’t. I shake my head, steeling myself. This is going to be a mess to clean up.

I rush over in two steps. “Miss, you can’t use that pen!” I nearly trip over the edge of the rug in my hurry, startling both girls. Sarah yelps and nearly drops her lemonade. I can’t help but wince.

She blinks her big, watery eyes, looking innocent. “Why not? I even used it to write stories a few days ago!” Her voice is so sweet, so guileless, I almost feel bad for scolding her. Almost.

Stories? A chill runs down my spine. That explains the governor’s frazzled look yesterday. Suddenly, it all clicks.