“What’s this?” Antonio touched Gideon’s neck, where Rune had drawn spellmarks to stop his bleeding. He glanced up, staring at her. “You’re a witch?”
“Got a problem with that?” growled Gideon.
As if he could do anything about it in his weakened state.
Antonio only nodded in approval. “He would have bled out had you not cast this,” he told Rune. “You saved his life.”
He sounded genuinely pleased. That pleasure—at her skill and at Gideon being alive—reassured Rune. She took her finger off the trigger and set the gun down on the table. “How can I help?”
“You can help me take off his shirt. Bart, can you boil some water? And fetch a bottle of the strongest spirits we have in the house.”
Rune moved to pick up the gun again and tell Bart to stay right where he was, because what was to stop him from sending a message to the Commander—or worse, Cressida? What was to stop him from simply fetching a weapon of his own and killing them both?
But Antonio touched her arm, and the gesture was so gentle, it coaxed Rune’s attention back to him.
“We all need to trust each other.” He nodded to the empty doorway where Bart had stood a moment ago. “You are in a position to damn him as much as he is to damn you.”
Rune assumed he was talking about their relationship, which was obviously far more than master and cook.
“He’s tried very hard to put people off him—young eligible women especially—to keep us a secret,” explained Antonio.
Rune studied the acolyte, who obviously lacked the two things aristocrats like Bart Wentholt required in a partner: the ability to give him heirs, and the ability to advance his position in society. For this reason, Bart and Antonio could never marry. And if they were found out, the Wentholts would likely force their son to marry some girl against his will. If he refused, they could disown him outright.
“You’ve just exposed what he’s successfully kept hidden for years,” said Antonio.
“I see,” said Rune.
Had it all been an act, then? Had Bart Wentholt merely pretended to be a shallow, narcissistic airhead to repel courtship attempts?
If so, Rune applauded him. He’d certainly fooled her—and she was a master of pretending to be something she wasn’t.
Bart returned a few minutes later with not only boiled water and spirits but a kit of supplies. Inside were tweezers, bandages, and a needle and thread—everything Rune had searched for and failed to find.
Gideon crossed his arms over the table and leaned his head against them as Antonio worked. He clenched his teeth as Antonio dug out the bullets and sanitized the wounds with alcohol. Rune crouched beside Gideon, holding his hand andletting him squeeze as hard as he needed when the pain was too much.
Finally, he was cleaned, stitched, and bandaged. Some color had even returned to his face. While Antonio cleaned the instruments and Rune washed her bloodied hands, Bart poured them all drinks from the bottle of whiskey he’d fetched.
Gideon declined. Rune followed suit, remembering what happened the last time she’d imbibed.
As Antonio pulled up a chair, Rune turned to Bart. “Where’s the rest of your family?”
“On the Continent. They sailed two weeks ago, to join my sister in Umbria. She’s married to a man from Caelis and begged them to come as soon as she heard rumors of war brewing.”
Rune nodded. Bart’s mother was a retired witch hunter; she would have been executed.
“Why didn’t you go with them?”
“I didn’t believe the rumors.” He looked at Antonio, eyes glittering in the gaslight. “Or maybe I did, and didn’t care.”
“I refused to leave,” said Antonio, filling in what Bart had left out. “This island is my home.”
And if Antonio wouldn’t leave, was the unspoken sentiment,neither would Bart.
A soft silence settled over them. The gaslights hummed on the walls, but they weren’t bright enough to fully light the room, leaving the four of them half in shadow.
“It’s only a matter of time before Cressida takes over the countryside,” said Rune, breaking the silence. “She’ll find this place. She’ll find both of you.”
Bart shrugged. “Where else are we supposed to go? Her soldiers already ransacked my family’s estate. This is all we have left.” He swirled his whiskey, then set down his glass. “I was never fond of the Republic, or the Rosebloods. I don’t care whowins in the end. I’m tired of hiding and pretending.” He glanced at the boy sitting next to him. “Antonio and I have decided to live out the rest of our days—however numbered—the way we’ve always wanted to: beside each other. No more hiding.”
