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Her ribs were too tight. Her skin burned from the inside out.
Lysander swore again and swept her up into his arms. Her head lolled against his chest, sweat slicking her hairline despite the cold.
He carried her towards the bathroom, knelt, and set her gently on the tiles. The stone bit cold through her clothes, grounding and nauseating all at once. She curled forward, panting.
“Speak to me, witchling.” He pumped water into the tub with quick, efficient movements, his jaw tight.
She swallowed hard, tasting acid. Her throat convulsed; she spat onto the tiles, unable to hold it back.
Lysander didn’t flinch. If anything, his movements grew sharper, urgency overtaking calculation.
He picked her up and lowered her into the tub, clothes and all. Warm water enveloped her, soaking through fabric, creeping into skin. It dulled the agony like a balm poured over burning coals. Her muscles unclenched one by one.
Her breathing steadied. Her hands stopped shaking.
“Idonea?”
Her head jerked towards him, the last flicker of pain pulsing behind her eyes.
“I…” she rubbed at her throat. “Check near the door. For markings. Or … anything.”
His brows drew together, but he didn’t argue. With one last lingering look, he slipped out and closed the door.
Idonea pushed herself upright. Her clothes heavy to her skin. She stripped them away with shaking fingers and eased back into the water. Her heartbeat slowed to something steady.
He knocked at the door. “You need to see this.”
She stepped from the tub, dried, and tightened the towel around her, its edges damp.
The hearth crackled as she exited the bathroom. He was crouched near the front door, one knee to the floor, one hand braced on the frame.
“Well?”
He didn’t look up immediately. When he did, she noticed the twitch in his throat. He swallowed, gaze flickering over her once, then returned to the doorway.
She stepped closer. Kneeling beside him, she was aware of the space between them. He shifted subtly.
Marked in the bottom corner of the doorway was a sigil. Not Vinea’s, something else.
“What…” she murmured, brushing a finger near it.
His eyes lingered on her. “You’re trembling,” he said.
She turned to him, eyes narrowing. “You’re staring.”
He didn’t deny it. She pulled away, rising to her feet.
“I need salt,” she said. “And don’t touch it.”
He stood too. “I won’t.”
Idonea turned, walking to the bedroom to dress first.
In dry clothes, and armed with salt, Idonea returned to the front door. Lysander stood nearby, leaning against the wall. His expression guarded.
She sat, resting the dagger on her lap.
“So, what is it?” Lysander asked.
