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“No. You burn.”
The words landed somewhere beneath her ribs. Idonea hated that she'd no immediate answer for them.
His gaze drifted down the slope of her throat to where water glimmered against her skin, then back up to meet her eyes. They stared at one another across the threshold, thick with the slow tilt of recognition.
“I’ll wait outside,” he said again, quieter this time.
Idonea stared at the space he'd filled. She let herself sink lower in the water, lips just above the surface.
His words hung in the air, unsettling as the memory of his hand around her earlier. She hated that part of her had found comfort in it.
Lysander had left a nightgown. A clear direction that she should sleep.
She stared at the soft fabric, her pulse quick with unease. As if she’d be foolish enough to rest while time waned. Every second they spent here was a step closer to something worse.
Still, she dressed. The nightgown clung lightly to her damp skin, the hem brushing her calves.
Lysander waited by the hearth, arms folded, a subtle sheen of exhaustion across his face. His eyes met hers briefly, before they drifted downward, tracing her shape without shame, without apology.
She lifted her chin. “I need something else to wear.”
He gestured towards the bed. “Those might be better.”
Her gaze followed, finding practical clothing waiting.
Idonea changed into the clean clothes laid out for her: a plain black tunic lined with fur, and warm woollen trousers. She’d never worn pants. There were new boots that hugged her calves.
When she emerged, Lysander had already moved the table aside and opened the floor hatch. He reached into his shirt and drew out a silver chain, a key glinting at its end.
“We’ll have more luck leaving out of Alcaeus’ house,” he said.
Then he turned and held out a dagger. He held it out, hilt-first. He wouldn't meet her eyes.
The blade was a hair’s breadth wide, needle-slim from hilt to top. Its hilt was wrapped in dark linen over a core of tightly grained oak. The blade was narrow enough for close work. Fast, precise, and made for slipping between ribs.
She turned it over in her hands, using the second to take it in. “Does Alcaeus know?”
He shook his head. “But I know it is something you need.”
He didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t ask.
Down in the basement, Lysander gave back her belt and satchel. After affixing both, he led her down a narrow passage that smelled of wet stone.
Near the end of the tunnel, unease rose through her ribs. Pressure gathered between her shoulder blades. Idonea resisted the urge to look behind her.
“Idonea?” His voice pulled her forward.
She shook her head. “Nothing.” She exhaled and pressed forward. “Let’s go.”
He unlocked the hatch and pushed upwards. The old hinges groaned, and cold air spilled down like a wave. He offered his hand, and she took it blindly, letting him pull her into the dim stillness of Alcaeus’ kitchen.
She swallowed, recalling Kitsa's words. “Is there a back door?”
He nodded, already turning. She followed him past the laundry room, into the night. The air bit at her skin. No sleet, thank the stars. Lance flew down from the roof, a shimmer of scales and muscles, his tongue flicking the air. He landed beside her with a hiss.
She smiled, quiet and sincere. “Hello.” His presence calmed her, though his presence here likely indicated he found no trace of the daemon.
“Stay low,” Lysander murmured. He moved first, slipping into the shadow between two buildings. She followed, keeping her steps light, thankful the snow muffled everything. Twice he raised a hand and stopped her, waiting as a patrol passed by. He probably had the patterns memorised.
