“I am going to sew it,” he said, his low voice breaking my focus. “This may sting.”
I glanced back to the curious sight of my hand cradled in his, his skin cool compared to the clammy heat of mine. The wound was clean, pink and damp, stripped of dried blood and the remnants of his earlier…ministrations.
I nodded.
He threaded the needle with practised ease, his hand steady beneath mine. I flinched only once as the point pierced my skin, the motion precise and nothing like Falstaff’s jagged slash. Helm dipped in concentration, his chain draped over his chest, swaying between us, occasionally ghosting my skin. He paused to roll back its hem, tucking it into the collar of his tunic. The chain links were astonishing this close, the metal so fine it was almost threadlike, the thin weaves moving like liquid. I foundmyself wondering whether the links were as light as gossamer or silk, or if its appearance was deceiving, heavy like sodden wool and bending the neck.
“Is it cumbersome?” I asked, inclining towards his veil.
Another sigh. “Is what cumbersome? Enduring yet another question from one I have expressly warned to keep silent? Someone who seems incapable of keeping their mouth closed unless teeth are involved?”
I snapped my jaw shut, the click of it loud in the quiet, before turning back to the wall.
“Yes,” he said eventually, over the crackle of hearthfire.
“When do you take it off?” I asked, eyes still on the wall, indulging my secret curiosities I’d never again have the chance to ask.
His stitching hand paused. “Eager to gaze upon my pretty face, Seamstress?”
Heat crept up my neck. “Pretty? Doubtful, since you all insist on hiding behind iron.”
“Perhaps that is true of Falstaff,” he said, returning to sew my wound. “But I assure you, I amdevastatinglyhandsome.”
I raised a brow, head spinning to face him again. “And modest, too.”
A huffed laugh escaped the metal. “What I lack in modesty, I possess in good sense…enough to know when silence serves me. You are finished.”
He released me abruptly, letting my hand flop to the side. I lifted it, inspecting his work. The stitch was precise, the sort that would scar but heal cleanly, the boiled thread drawn in taut, trim lines.
“Well?” he prompted. “Surely a seamstress has an opinion.”
“It is adequate.”
“Adequate,” he mocked, stashing the remaining supplies in the drawer.
“Why doesn’t it hurt?” I pressed, scrunching my palm. “I feel nothing.” Nothing, save for a pleasant sort of tingling. I wiggled my fingers again, enjoying the way the sensation spread, like snowflakes landing and melting against warm flesh.
Metal shifted as he rounded the bed, unlocking my other shackle. I sat upright against the headboard, rubbing my red and tender wrists.
“I will indulge one last question. Is that your choice?”
I shook my head, hand already forgotten. I let the words sit on my tongue for a moment, deciding how best to arrange them. How to present them palatably, without drawing too much attention to Demetri and me, though he probably knew already.
“Where are the other laurels? Are they safe?”
“That’s two.”
“Are they safe?”
He waved both hands to the beams. “This is the Grand Templum of Dendra—the Blood God’s earthly abode. No one issafefrom His wrath.”
I hugged myself, holding my arms with a vice-like grip, determined not to unravel in a druid’s bed.
Sighing, he perched himself on the end of it, ducking his helm under the top frame. “They live.Helives, if that is what you truly meant.”
I exhaled, feeling the knot in my centre loosen, and relaxed into the cushions that padded my lower back.
“A small, but important, morsel of advice.” He tugged at the covers, their weight pulling beneath me. “Witless questions beget witless answers. It is no offense, but a courtesy, to be direct. Now, come,” he said, throwing a thumb towards the iron door.
