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“The healer will arrive in the morning.”
She nodded, putting her hand to her throat self-consciously.
“How are you?” she asked. “Are you alright?”
He just stared at her, his jaw set in silence.
“Uh—” she said, feeling her face flush. “What are the weapons for?”
Davron put his hand on the sword pommel and flexed his heavily lacerated fingers.
“I will watch over you while you sleep.”
“Do you not need to rest?”
Right now, what she wanted the most was Davron’s arms around her. She believed that was the only thing that might make her feel better. He could hardly look at her, though. Any hopes she’d had of comforting each other evaporated the moment he entered the room armed to the teeth.
“I will rest when I know you are safe,” he said.
He withdrew the rose-gold clamshell from his pocket and set it on her nightstand.
“Open it,” he said. “So that you need not fear me during the night.”
Amelie shook her head in disbelief. “I do not fear you.”
“Open it,” he ordered.
She complied rather than expend energy she did not have to argue with him.
The gentle pink light poured over her like a blessing, alleviating a portion of her distress. She sank into the pillow, the tincture taking effect, and she began to relax for the first time since she was attacked.
As she settled under the blankets, Davron strode to the foot of the bed, one hand still on the sword, eyeing the door. Now and then, he would pace to the doorway, listening, and come back again.
Amelie watched him through increasingly heavy eyelids, marveling grimly at how completely life could change in a day, once again. Had it only been last night they’d spent a perfect evening together in his bed? The difference was like night and day. Death and life. Hate and love.
Her thoughts grew more and more abstract, drifting sideways until she fell into a deep, merciful sleep. There, she dreamed only of a now familiar woman with long red hair. She held both hands to her chest and wept without reserve for what seemed like an eternity.
“—her until she’s ready.”
“But her wounds need attention.”
“I can dress them as she lays there. We need not awaken her.”
Amelie groaned and rubbed her eyes, trying to open them.
“I’m awake,” she attempted to say, but the words came out as a rasp.
A soft hand rested on her shoulder. “Now, you take it slow, dear,” said a woman’s voice. “You’ve had quite a time of it, I see.”
In her disoriented state, Amelie was reminded irresistibly of her mother—of being cared for when she was unwell with a fever or a scrape. That was impossible, though. Her mother was long dead.
She squinted against the yellow sunlight, a white-haired woman with sharp features coming into view.
“It’s Reylene,” said the woman. “I am a healer. I met you at Oskar’s house when young Hugo had taken ill.”
“Mmm,” said Amelie. “Nice to see you.”
Reylene chuckled. “Hardly ideal circumstances. Still, better than the alternative. While you’re returning to the waking world, could I take a look at your legs? Your fella here says you’ve some cuts and bruises.”
