Page 43 of Down Comes the Night

He looked a little slighted. “No, that’s not my intention.”

“Well, there’s not much to it, anyway,” she muttered. “War and suffering. Martyrdom. Perhaps some coal mining. Not thatyouneed to be told about any of that.”

“I suppose not.” He flipped a page casually, as if he’d not registered her insult. “I just want to know your account of what wastaken from you. Which cities, which resources, how many casualties.”

To her surprise, there was no pleasure, no pride, in his voice. Only a pensive gravitas. What use could he have for figures like that, if not to gloat, or to see how easy it would be to eradicate them entirely? But she resented his confidence that he could boil loss down to numbers, that human life amounted to nothing but tally marks. That attitude had landed them here, blood repaid in blood thrice over, an infinite debt.

“You’ll never know exactly what was taken from us. You’ll never even know whatyoutook personally. There’s no quantifying something like that.”

“I know,” he said. “But perhaps someone should try.”

Wren blinked at him. She was in no mood to untangle his evasive responses or discuss war today. “I guess I can’t criticize you for your choice of reading material.”

“What do you like to read?”

The corner of Wren’s mouth lifted involuntarily into a smile. Apparently, he appreciated the change in topic as well. “Guess.”

He considered it as he turned another page. “Theologians.”

Wren snorted. “Goddess, no. I’m not so boring as you.”

“Penny dreadfuls?”

“Suitably lurid,” she said, “but no. Medical textbooks.”

Hal’s expression grew puzzled. “I see.”

“Watch it, Cavendish. You haven’t lived until you’ve read all the gruesome case studies of people living with parasites.”

“Then I’ll settle for my boring, half-lived life.”

Wren pursed her lips to keep herself from grinning at him. When she let herself forget who he was and what he’d done, he was surprisingly easy to talk to despite his reserve. Or maybe she’d grown used to him already.

“And you?” she asked. “What would you be doing if you were home?”

“Much of my time lately has been consumed with reading policyand attending meetings.” He returned his attention to his book. “To be honest, if I could do anything, I would be training.”

Wren groaned. “Training? You can’t be serious.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she caught a faint smile on his lips. But when he glanced up, he looked as expressionless as ever. “I’m always serious.”

As the conversation dwindled into almost companionate silence, she turned her attention to healing him. Her fingers skimmed his chest as she unfastened his buttons, magic rippling over his skin like water. By some miracle, he didn’t flinch. It seemed she wasn’t the only one falling into the rhythm of their sessions.

Healing him had become a rote process by now, a matter of redoing all her work yet again. After only two times, she’d obtained a morbid sort of familiarity with his body. The particular turns of hisfola,the frail stutter of his heart. It no longer fought against her.

Although sleep had restored her supply of magical energy, she still felt listless. With no sample of the toxin and no guidance, Wren could give Hal no formal diagnosis and no effective treatment. And while he deserved to know the truth behind his illness, she couldn’t bring herself to tell him just yet. Why worry him or give him more reason to doubt her? He was stable, and that was all that mattered.

At least until overuse ran her magic dry.

Despair, however, fixed nothing. She refused to give up until she’s exhausted her every lead. The night she’d arrived, she’d noticed the extensive selection of medical books in Lowry’s library. Perhaps that included a guide to medicinal—or poisonous—plants.

Wren’s magic flickered out just as Hal heaved a long, unimpeded sigh. Night had unfurled over the mountains now, flooding through the window like the dark burble of a river. She lit the candles drooping in their waxy copper dishes.

A blade of fire danced on the end of the match, and of all things to sink her in grief, it was the smell of it. Here in the wavering dark of Colwick Hall, she could almost hear Byers:Got a light, Southerland?

The flame singed her finger, jolting her back into the present. She swore and shook out the match.

“Are you alright?” The light brushed gold over his features, as stark and shining as those of an icon of a saint. What threw her most, however, was the earnestness in his expression.