Page 48 of Down Comes the Night

She slipped her arm around his waist and winced as he transferred some of his weight to her. He was surprisingly heavy, despite the time away from training. With every step, lean muscle rippled under her touch—a sensation she desperately tried to ignore.

“How far do you intend to take me?” he asked, his voice calculatedly casual.

A fair question. Hal’s company was, if nothing else, an excellent cover for snooping. Since Wren had found those anatomical sketches hidden in the morning room’s writing desk, she hadn’t found another chance to look at them.

“More than five steps and fewer than five miles.” At his despondent look, she added, “You know, if you were doing this every day as youshould,it wouldn’t be so onerous. For today, we’ll go to the morning room.”

“Very well.” Although his voice remained affectless, his face was the most expressive she’d seen it.Frustrated.She supposed it would be humbling. In his prime, he was an elite soldier. Now, he was barely able to stand without aid from a girl meant to be his enemy.

They made it down the hallway, where the last of the light dragged its nails against the floorboards. His breaths already came thick and labored by the time they stopped at the top of the grand staircase. Sheer exhaustion dulled his eyes to gray.

“We’ll take it slow,” she said. “One step at a time, alright?”

“I can walk on my own.”

This again? Wren thought he’d overcome the worst of his ego already. “Can you really? Frankly, you look like you’re about to keel over.”

“I don’t need you to coddle me.” Hal lifted her arm from around him and clung to the banister with a white-knuckled grip.

Wren bristled. She could have easily yanked him back to her side, or scolded him for being stubborn. But something else possessed her, rooted her in place as she watched him hobble downstairs, step by agonizing step. If he fell, she told herself she would take pleasure in it—that he’d deserve it. But through that goddessdamned tether, she sensed his struggle. His heart raced with exertion, pulling hers along with it. It nauseated her, filled her with a light-headed anxiety that deepened every time he faltered. Wren tailed him like a forlorn hound.

It wasn’t until they alighted on the ground floor that she expelled the stale air from her lungs. He still walked determinedly ahead of her, through spears of wan sunlight that painted his black hair in shades of indigo. For all his wounded pride, Hal moved like a man made of glass, his every step rigid and delicate. He kept his face utterly blank, as if there were nothing at all wrong with him.Typical soldier.But Wren knew better. With his extensive organ damage, even this small exertion must have been excruciating.

She followed him into the morning room—and heard him trip before she saw it.

His foot scuffed the floor, as loud as a gunshot in the late evening gloom. Then he stumbled forward, tearing a gasp from Wren’s throat. Before she could spring for him, Hal caught himself on the back of an armchair.

Wren approached him, uncertain whether to accost him withare you alright?orwhat were you thinking?first. He’d begun to trust her, so what had changed? Was it so terrible to need someone else? Was kindness such a horrible burden to endure?

“I hope you’re pleased with yourself.” Wren took him by the shoulders and all but shoved him into the chair. “Need I remind you that you asked for my help? I understand you’re allergic to compassion, but you have to let metry.”

Hal bowed his head, his bed-mussed hair falling over his eyes. “Alright.”

Wren placed a hand on her hip. “Alright?”

“You’re right. I do need your help.” A concession, at last—not that he looked in any condition to resist her anymore.

“Good.” Wren pinched the bridge of her nose, suddenly exhausted herself. “Rest for a few minutes, and then we’ll go back.”

But first, the sketches.

As soon as Hal let his eyes fall closed, Wren went to the writing desk and unlatched the drawer. It slid out with a squeal on its unoiled tracks.

“What’re you doing?” Hal asked.

“Nothing that concerns you.” Wren turned on her heel to face him. “Mind your business.”

He blinked at her, clearly perplexed. “Pardon my intrusion.”

Wren huffed. “I just… left something in the drawer. Sometimes I work down here. It’s a nicer view than in my room.”

While he didn’t look at all convinced, he didn’t ask her any more questions. Wren lifted the sheaf of papers out of the drawer and laid them on the desk. As soon as she spread them out, she was struck by their meticulous detail. Each page contained a sketch of a specific part of the body and included a map of thefola,composed in a tracery of black and silver ink.

She leafed through drawings of the heart, the femur, the hand—until she reached the last page, which depicted the bulbus oculi, the eyeballs. Thefola’s insertion points were marked in thick, decisive smears of lead. She bent closer, squinting at the cramped handwriting. This collection must have been part of Lowry’s father’s research, and based on what Lowry had told her about him, nothing about it struck her as unusual. Although the paper seemed too new, too preserved, to be more than a few years old.

She was almost disappointed.

“Well?” She replaced the papers in the drawer and turned back to Hal. “Shall we?”