“There’s a knife in there,” I blurt out.
“I know. I had a very clear view when you were stepping on me a week ago.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve been thinking . . .” Emeric starts, then clears his throat. “Last Thursday, with the Augur’s Tears. You said you weren’t a good person.”
“Scheit,” I mutter. I’d hoped I kept that to myself. “But it’s the truth, isn’t it? Otherwise I couldn’t have said it with the Tears.”
He’s being almost painfully careful as he loosens the final row of laces and starts to ease my boot off. “I think there are lives that make it easy to be good. Or what most people call good. When you have wealth, status, family, it’s easy to be a saint, it costs you nothing. I can’t say if you’re a good person or not. But the more I know of you, the more I understand that the world keeps making you choose between survival and martyrdom. No one should fault you for wanting to live.”
My foot slips free with a twinge. It almost hurts more, having it out in the open. I stare at the ceiling again, this time because I don’t want him to see my eyes welling up.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, “the—the stocking—”
“I said do what you need to.”
I really,reallyshould have thought that through.
Emeric’s trying to be as clinical as he can, but I think I stop breathing as his fingers skim up my calf, under the hem of my skirts. They find the stocking tie below my knee and go to work. His head’s bowed, and I can’t see his face, but a flush stains the back of his neck.
“All that was to say,” he continues, “the fact is that your life has been hard because people keep choosing to make it that way. And today I was one of them, and I am so, so sorry. I chose to believe the worst of you, to hurt you trying to prove I was right. I did it, even knowing what the von Falbirgs put you through. I’m no better than they are.”
I feel the stocking tie come undone, and if I don’t say something to distract myself, I’m going to scream. “If you were as bad as the von Falbirgs, I’d—” About to saythrow you back in the Yssar, I realize that might not be the best choice, considering Klemens. Unfortunately, what stumbles out of my mouth, shaking with tears, is worse: “I’d have never let you in.”
Emeric slips a little. He pauses, fishes out a neatly pressed kerchief, and passes it to me without a word before turning back to my ankle.
I dry my face, trying not to think about the silk sliding down my leg, or the hands guiding it. “Besides. I made it easier to—to believe. If Adalbrecht had tried to frame Gisele, or Joniza . . . If I wasn’t . . .”
“Please don’t.” Emeric looks up at me. The firelight catches in his eyes, stirring embers in the deep brown. “You don’t need to justify what I did. You could have been the worst backstreet cutthroat and it wouldn’t excuse how I treated you. Or how the von Falbirgs did.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Some part of me has always looked for how I brought these things on myself. I missed a spot of tarnish on the silver, I missed the way the dame gripped her mead, I missedsomethingand set them off and if I could figure out where I went wrong, they wouldn’t call me stupid or throw things or strike me.
There had to be a reason for it. That made it something I could control. Something I could hope to stop.
It’s the worst kind of relief for someone to say it was never in my control.
Emeric shifts to prop my foot on his knees, and I’m abruptly,excruciatinglyaware of the stocking slipping off my toes. It was easier to hide under boot leather and silk, but my ankle’s a swollen, bruised mess. He breathes out a curse, shame clouding his face. Then he reaches for the vial of witch-ash.
“You’re sure that won’t hurt you?” I ask.
He shakes his head and uncorks the vial. Thyme wafts from the oil instead of juniper. “The Order’s ash is a much higher concentration. This is just for medicinal use.” Emeric takes a small swig, then dabs a few drops onto my ankle. “This might feel odd, but it shouldn’t hurt.”
I brace myself and nod. He hasn’t understated it this time: It feels strange when he starts mumbling under his breath, a little like my ankle’s deflating, but the ache washes away. I didn’t even realize how sore it was until now.
Emeric’s looking at a scratch over my knuckles, eyes glowing from the witch-ash. “There’s still a little magic left. Do you want . . . ?”
“Sure.”
It’s also strange, almost hypnotic, to watch him as he moves around me, brushing away the scrapes and scuffs. It feels like another thing that belongs behind a curtain, the concentration in his brow, lips moving almost silently, fingertips trailing faint smudges of thyme oil on my skin. Finally he reaches for the bruise on my jaw.
I have a very unsettling thought as fingers brush the side of my face, as thyme floods my nose. I—I think—
I want him to stay like this. Close to me, touching my face feather-light, like I am something precious, I am worth taking care. Like I deserve to live without wounds, not despite them. I want this moment trapped in amber, so I can hold it tight when I need it most.
He lets me go, and it passes. The cold consolation is that I can finally catch my breath.
Emeric stands and offers me a hand up. “How is it?” he asks as I test my ankle.
