Page 53 of Down Comes the Night

“Do you trust me?” Wren asked.

Hannah heaved a vexed sigh, rolling her eyes heavenward. “Yes. I trust you.”

“Then just trust that you don’t need to know right now.”

“But that’s so cryptic! When exactly will I ‘need to know’?”

“Soon,” Wren said pleadingly. “I promise.”

Hannah opened her mouth to protest but cut herself off as she glared down at the poison. “Alright. But you can’t hide things from me forever.”

“Thank you.”

“Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As soon as the door clicked shut behind Hannah, Wren cradled her head in her hands and tried to breathe through her dread. Whatever this poisoner had planned for Hal, she intended to foil it. Assuming, of course, she could cure a supposedly incurable poison in the span of nine days.

It was a huge assumption.

For the first time in her life, she feared she had brushed against the limits of her skill. With a team, she could organize shifts. At home, she would have access to an entire apothecary, botanical libraries, and a host of other opinions. But here, she was only one girl.

If she couldn’t bring Hal back alive, she needed a contingency plan.

It was time to renegotiate their deal.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Hal was sleeping.

Part of her was relieved to not have to face him immediately after their conversation earlier this afternoon. But more of her was annoyed, since she’d made herself perfectly clear that he was to walk—or at the very least sit upright—in the evenings. But in the low-burning candlelight he looked so delicate, she refrained from waking him immediately. His hair lay against his forehead like a spill of ink. Did he always wear it long, or had it grown unruly during his illness? If she wanted to, she could gather half of it into a tiny bun at the top of his head. The thought sent shivers of thrill and disgust through her.

Wren sat in the bedside chair, the wood creaking mournfully beneath her. His eyelashes were perfect black crescents against his wan skin. How tempting it was to touch him, simply because she could. How miserable would he be if he awoke to find his hair combed or his dark circles mended? Or perhaps he’d find her only inches fromhis face, healing his chapped lips as she traced the pouting line of his mouth…

His eyes snapped open, bleary but fierce on hers.

Wren jerked back but recovered, sitting straight-backed in her chair and planting her hands firmly in her lap. Heat crept from her collar like a rash. “You know very well you shouldn’t be in bed.”

Hal only let out a long, rasping sigh. He closed his eyes again, drawing the blanket over his nose.

“No, none of that now.” She pulled the covers away from him and cast them onto the floor. “Thrombosis is the silent killer.”

Wren helped him to his feet, her magic threading between their fingers, and held fast until he straightened to his full height. Then, she let him go finger by finger, as if worried a sudden wind would knock him over. “You need to make it to the parlor on your own, alright?”

“Yes,” he said in a clipped, long-suffering tone. “I know.”

Together, they trudged downstairs and to the parlor. It was a cramped, narrow den that someone with a greater appetite for melancholy might have called cozy. Velvet-upholstered chairs surrounded the fireplace in a semicircle, and on a pedestal in the corner was a wooden box that Hannah had called a zoopraxiscope.

When she’d cranked it, Wren nearly leapt out of her skin. An electrical light within it surged, throwing a moving image onto the wall. She had watched a stag gallop through a snow-covered wood, its every stride meticulously illustrated.People’s first reactions never disappoint,Hannah had said with a poorly concealed smirk.

Hal dragged himself to the armchair by the window and let his head fall back against the cushion. Between the pained pinch of his eyebrows and the long, exposed line of his throat, he looked so vulnerable. Wren swallowed in tandem with the bob of his laryngeal prominence.

He was still upset with her, clearly. Wren knew she deserved it. He’d talked to her as an equal, patiently confronted her on her prejudices, and had begun to work on his own. Wren could not entirelymake sense of her heart. She’d resolved to keep him at a distance, to hate him. And yet…

Goddess damn him for making it so hard.

She approached the coffee table, where she’d placed a tray before she’d woken him. Nelly, the cook, gave it to Wren only after she promised to report back how Henry liked her new frosting recipe. Wren wasn’t entirely sure what he’d done to deserve doting, but she gave her solemn word nonetheless.

Nelly had truly outdone herself. Alongside a floral teapot were ceramic bowls filled with cream and sugar, as well as a two-tiered stand. Sandwiches with smoked fish and cucumbers nearly overflowed from the first level. On the second were tiny cakes garnished with candied angelica. It was too indulgent for her tastes, but who was she to deny a dying man the comfort of dessert?