The angel would have floated to the floor, but Pedro clasped her palm and tugged. With a sleepy murmur, she climbed atop the mattress and lay on her side, facing him with her eyes closed, her mouth half-open, her breathing warm bursts on his chin.
Pedro traced her brows and her bow-shaped lips, learning her contours, wishing to see inside her, divine her secrets. When she stirred, he stopped and settled for holding her hand, feeling the bird-like bones and tendons, the blood pulsing in her wrist.
How strange, seeing her roaming fingers so still. Pedro examined the pads of her fingertips, and when he reached the center of her palm, he found a raised patch of skin. A scar? He couldn't see it in the dim light.
What would her hand feel over his chest? Above his heart? No, he wouldn't risk it. He couldn't spoil this reprieve. For once, touch felt like summer and not blade cold. If the drug had made his skin insensitive, he hoped it lasted through the night.
Too soon, the light changed from soft blue to soft golden, and she blinked, her irises a sliver around raven pupils. "Oh, I'm sorry," she whispered. "I don't remember falling asleep."
"You sang to me." His tone was rough, more question than accusation.
"I... You were in pain. I didn't know what else to do."
"You have a beautiful voice."
"Thank you." A shy smile played at the corner of her lips.
Pedro turned her hand palm up and touched her scar. "What is this?"
She looked away. "Oh, that. You will think it silly."
"Indulge me."
She was silent for too many heartbeats, and then she sighed, and her smile wobbled. "I was six. After my father died, my mother, she... Well, she became distraught and threw a few mementos at the hearth. There was not much left after... letters and a cameo, even her wedding ring. But when she flung my locket into the fire, I rushed after it. Afterward, the doctor said it was not so much thatI placed my hand there. You see, the piece had heated, and I held it in my cupped hands like this." She interlaced her fingers and locked her palms. "My mother couldn’t pry my hands open. I only let go after my brother reassured me no one would take it from me."
Anne opened her hands like the halves of a shell. Printed on the rosy skin of her palms were twin heart-shaped burns.
Pedro traced the markings with his fingertips more gently than he ever had treated a battle wound, awed by the girl who had leaped into the fire after her father's memory. Another facet of this Anne, who crusaded for her sister-in-law and meant to save the king's life.
"A lot of trouble for a piece of jewelry, right?" she said deprecatingly, all the while caressing the locket with her free hand, the one hand Pedro had not retrieved the moment she had finished her explanation. "My mother forced me to use bandages for three weeks, afraid the skin would scar terribly. I barely remember the pain, but being deprived of touch made a horrible impression on me."
"That is why you always feel the world with your fingers."
"Nobody mentioned... I guess you are right." She exhaled, her eyes lifting abashedly to his. "I'd better go."
He tightened the hold on her hand. "It's early still. No one will notice."
"But it is not decent—"
"Stay for the sunrise."
"Sunrise?" She glanced over his shoulder and gasped.
The circular glass pane occupying most of his cabin's bulkhead offered the best dawn view. Pedro had designed it himself to watch the sun conquer the night after sleepless, shadow-soaked hours.
"Won't you face the window?" Anne propelled her head over a bent elbow, her cheeks reflecting the predawn brilliance.
She spoke of sunrises and sea and summer, but her words blended into a gentle chime, rocked by the boat swaying to and fro. Languidness melted his limbs, and he couldn't muster the will to turn from her. He drank the way her mouth formed sounds and then settled into watching her eyes. While dark still ruled outside, her pupils occupied all, ebony, like night. As the first sun rays reflected on her skin, the blue of her irises unfolded, expanding, breathing out. The dawn she watched avidly spread to his chest—a triumph of light.
"The sun just crested. If I had my watercolors here... look at these blues and the saffron and the waves." She smiled and pressed his hand. "You are missing it."
"I'm not," he breathed, his voice faltering. Aboard theDawn Chaser, he had watched the sunrise from the Port of Malta, where the sky turned crimson above the Mediterranean. He had seen it defeat the darkness from Mozambique's coast, where the aquamarine Indian sea became a mirror for Dhon boats. He had seen it emerge from the English shore, where the horizon caught fire, and the North Sea boiled like a cauldron.
Nothing compared to seeing dawn in her eyes.
She yawned, her skin golden, her hair mussed. "How lovely."
He had to agree, for this morning, the sun had traded places with Icarus and was singed by this fire-leaping angel. If the sun couldn't keep from flying close to her, who was Pedro to resist? He shifted on the mattress, craving her brilliance. The stitches pulled against the bruised skin of his side, forcing him to stop. She had come to succor him. He couldn't repay her by taking advantage of her innocence. Pedro lingered for a moment more on her trusting gaze. Cris was right. She was too pure for him. Reluctantly, he released her hand and crossed his arms above his chest.
