Page 51 of Down Comes the Night

Was he actually flustered? It had to be her imagination. It couldn’t be that she had any effect on him—that he wrestled with the same horrible impulses as her. To touch her carelessly, to talk to her as if they could be anything but enemies.

Nothing but the tether,she told herself. But as soon as she thought it, it rang hollow, as untrue as these ridiculous stereotypes. Although he was proud and sullen, Hal had surprised her. Despite herself, she’d come to enjoy his company, the way he’d begun to open up as if against his will. In this thin winter sunshine, she thought she recognized what he was hiding behind that breaking front. Hal Cavendish wasn’t just desperate for her help.

He was lonely.

“Anything else you need dispelled?” he asked quietly.

“Your reputation.”

His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve been surrounded by enough death to know that people reveal their trues selves at the end. And here you are, mooning about and reading your philosophy books. Looking miserable every time I say the wordReaper.Looking miserable in general, really. So which Hal Cavendish is real? The one I grew up fearing, or the one sitting here?”

Hal’s shoulders went rigid. He tipped his face toward the window, obscuring half his features in shadow. “Neither. Both. Must we discuss this?”

“Oh, come on. What could you possibly be moping about?” She jabbed her finger into his chest. “There couldn’t possibly be a heart under there. You’ve killed too many people for that.”

Hal moved too quickly for her to react. In one motion, he pinned her hand to the armrest. His grip was firm enough to set her heartfluttering, but she wasn’t afraid. “Do you have nothing better to do with your time?”

“No, indeed. I have all night. This is what Lowry is paying me for. To torment you.”

He met her eyes: an accusation. “Everyone is afraid of me. But not you.”

There was a strange brew of hope and frustration in his voice.

“Do you want me to be?”

“No.” He removed his hand from hers. He spoke softly, almost achingly. “I don’t.”

It would be wise to fear him. No matter how he treated her, she had seen the truth. A part of him, however small, was capable of ruthlessness. Of committing atrocities with not a flicker of visible regret. No one could do such things and remain untouched by them. No one’s goodness could survive it.

Yet he had given her this. Vulnerability. A good Danubian soldier would have exploited it, dissected it. But here she was, hopelessly enraptured by him. Maybe she was a little lonely, too.

“To be honest, you’re not very scary,” she said. “You’re just kind of sad.”

Reality crashed back onto her. Soon enough, she wouldn’t be lonely anymore—because she’d betray his trust and make a prisoner of him. She couldn’t feel sorry for him—couldn’t feelanythingfor him. Would her heart always sabotage her? Would she always misplace her pity?

She had to kill her compassion before it became something far more problematic.

“And you’re powerless. You’re only acting this way because you need me. But I know what I saw in the war. They say you’re the perfect soldier. That you feel nothing at all. That you’re not even human.” She lowered her eyes to avoid watching his confusion solidify into hurt. “I know that’s all true.”

“So it is.” His voice was completely toneless when he said, “I’d like to go back upstairs now.”

Shame burned in her cheeks, unbidden and fierce. “Then get up, Cavendish.”

He did not speak to her the entire way back to his room, and as soon as she helped him into bed, he closed his eyes. It was as good as a door slammed in her face. As much as it stung, it was for the best to wedge distance between them.

Wren considered the philosophy book on his nightstand. Even if she’d effectively ruined any chance of getting him to be vulnerable again, curiosity about him burned strong. What was it that Hal Cavendish thought about during his lonely, torturous days? She pocketed it as she went.

In her room, she propped her feet up on her desk and flipped it open to where he’d ribbon-marked it. The title of the essay was “On Forgiveness.”

Wren had never felt so wretched in her life.

“Nothing.”

Wren tossedThe Natural History of the Cernosian Highlandsacross the room. It struck the floor at the foot of her bed with a dullthud.Hannah startled, glancing with mild concern over her shoulder.

“I don’t think throwing the book will make it tell you anything,” she said, turning back to her work. She held a beaker full of golden liquid—another dose of Hal’s blood fortifier—in her gloved hands, her hair piled high atop her head.