Page 145 of Sharpest Court

That first voice again: “I can’t administer the nightmilk until I’ve assessed the damage. And I can’t assess the damage until she stops moving.” Silence, followed by a relenting sigh. “Very well.”

The specter released me, but the cold fingers remained.

Then a warmer hand cupped my cheek, guiding my gaze to a pair of golden, anxious eyes. “Imagine that apartment in the city,” the voice said softly. “The fresh pastries. The gardenias on the balcony.”

I wanted to cry, but my throbbing ribs wouldn’t allow it.

“I’ll be here the whole time,” he whispered. “The whole time.”

My breathing slowed. My vision glazed over.

The cold hands resumed their work, and the warm one stroked my hair until the pain dragged me to sleep.

41

Slow breathing and birdsong trickled through the darkness. My body felt heavy—anchoring me to soft, cool sheets—and yet there was no pain. Only the dryness in my mouth and the scent of sterilizing alcohol stinging my nostrils.

I opened my eyes and found myself back in the bedchamber I’d occupied on Keil’s estate, all white and gold furnishings and daylight filtering through gauzy curtains.

I turned my head toward the sound of that slow, heavy breathing.

Keil was asleep on the armchair beside my bed, his neck slanted at an awkward angle, a ray of sunlight cutting a bright slice across his shirt. His eyes twitched beneath their lids, unsettled.

My mind was working too slowly, overflowing with images of crashing waves and pale blue eyes. Of blood and blades and screaming, screaming, screaming.

My breath snagged, and Keil’s eyes flew open. His gaze flicked around wildly before settling on me. And then he was out of the chair.

“You’re all right,” he said, sinking to his knees beside the bed. “You’re safe.” His eyes were bloodshot, and dark bruises blotted his face.

I tried to lift my arm, but it felt strangely clamped down. Restraints?

“Easy,” Keil soothed, seeing my horror. I followed his gaze to where my right arm was locked in a fabric sling. My fingers poked out from bandages that wrapped all the way to my forearm. With each inhale, I felt a dull, painless pull around my stomach. Fresh stitches.

Hot tears gathered on my eyelashes as reality truly sank in.

I’d felt my life slipping away in that river, and yet here it was, returned to me—daunting and painful, but still mine. Because Erik hadn’t been the one to drag me from the water. He hadn’t forced me back to Daradon.

Yet my relief was tempered by the new, excruciating images of Marge’s face, preserved forever in youth.

I’d made it out of that tower, carrying my future. But I hadn’t been able to carry hers.

Keil didn’t question the slow trickle of my tears as he propped me up on the pillows, brought me a glass of water, then supported the back of my head as I drank. The water sloshed in my cavernous stomach, making me feel nauseous.

“You had a fever for a while,” he said quietly. “We thought . . .” He looked away, unable to finish.

I opened my mouth, but speech clung in my throat. I cleared it, and then asked hoarsely, “Perla?”

“She’s fine,” Keil said, and I exhaled. “We all are. We found a locksmith who specializes in trapping devices, and he was able to safely remove Perla’s oath band. She’s been here the whole time, recovering.”

The whole time.

“How long?” I asked.

“Winker had to keep you asleep while he worked on you.” Keil winced, then said softly, “One week.”

My stomach plunged. Erik must be in Daradon by now, already starting to fix whatever was broken with either the compass or the Unbreakable Blade.

And I’d been here, stagnating.