Ragne is stretching on the hearth as a human girl, in clothes for once. She sits up, feet sticking out at odd angles. “Hello! You made it.”
“I did.” I throw the pearls on the bed and start on my bodice laces.
“How are you feeling?”
“Awful,” I admit. “Like I had the pox for a week. And fell out of a tree.”
I flop onto the chest at the foot of the bed as she stands, walks over, and pats my head. “How are you feeling here?”
My throat catches. I stop fussing with the laces a moment and say again, “Awful.”
To my surprise, Ragne says, “Me too.” When I look up at her, she fidgets. “I like the Gisele very much. But she hurt you again today. And the Emeric is confusing. I am sad for him, and I am very angry at what he did to you.”
“That really sums it up,” I say with a humorless laugh. “If it helps, I’m confused too.”
I trade my fine gown for the first kirtle I see on the floor. Only once I’ve pulled it over my head do I realize it’s the fir-green one from last night, when I showed Emeric the way out.
I can’t wear this. I go to dig another out of the wardrobe as Ragne sits on the hearth ledge, stands, looks at the veranda, and sits again.
She’s been jittery since I got back. It takes me a moment to sort out why, and only a heartbeat to think of a solution. “Hey, Ragne. I want to make sure everyone’s fine at Fortune’s cathedral, but I’m in no shape to leave. Can you go check—”
“Yes!” She practically poofs into an owl, only to realize the veranda doorknob needs hands to turn it. I open it for her and let her fly out into the night, unconcerned. I’m not going anywhere feeling this sick, and if Adalbrecht tries anything while she’s gone, I have Poldi.
I go back to the wardrobe and rummage around for another kirtle, only to touch strange heavy wool.
It’s the coat Emeric inadvertently left behind a week ago exactly, when he first tried to arrest me. The one withH KLEMENSstitched into the inside of the collar.
My chest tightens. This doesn’t belong to me.
I... I tell myself I don’t want anything of him left in my room. It’s an excuse, I know it’s an excuse, but it’s enough for my pride. I
fold it automatically, tucking it under an arm, then stop before I reach the bedroom door. Regardless of the Wolfhünden hiding among the guards, there’s no good excuse to send Gisele’s maid over to Emeric’s room to return his clothing. Even if I come up with a ruse . . . I’d still have to talk to him.
I head for the veranda instead. I’ll just drop it off on his railing, knock on the door, and get out before he can answer.
Outside, it’s the kind of frigid that shocks the breath from your lungs. The only upside is it numbs my throbbing ankle a little as I climb onto the trellis and shimmy my way to Emeric’s veranda.
I’m focusing too hard on keeping the coat clenched at my side, and on not putting too much weight on my bad foot, to notice my mistake until after I’ve knocked snow off his balustrade and started to lever myself over.
Last night, he left the sheer inner curtains drawn across the veranda door and the windows. Tonight, they’ve been pushed aside. That means I have a crystal clear view of Emeric bent over the washbasin near the door, spectacles hooked on the back of the mirror, splashing water onto his face.
These are the three things I notice, in the order that I notice them:
First, his shirt is. Well. It’s not there. That is, I mean, it’s not onhim, where itshould be, it’s been tossed over the desk chair. This is all very—confusing.
Second, he’s not exactly built like a fortress, but with his shirt off he looks drastically less like a gawky academic and more like a boy who’s ended a few fights himself. He’s got a respectable scattering of scars, enough to veer dangerously close tounrespectable. He even has a tattoo over his heart, something I wouldn’t have believed if I wasn’t seeing it with my own eyes.
If I had enough time, I could read stories in his marks, like I do with everything else I’m not meant to see.
But I don’t have enough time, because the third thing I notice is this: He’s been crying again. I know this because his eyes are red. And I noticethatbecause even without his spectacles, he’s staring dead at me, dripping water all over the carpet.
An agonizing beat passes as we gape at each other. Then he bursts out of the door and onto the veranda. I fling the coat directly into his face and hurl myself back at the trellis. Through the wool I still hear a muffled “Wait!”
“Nope,” I say, clinging to the trellis, “too cold, good night.”
“Please—”
I keep scuttling back toward my veranda.
