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To the chapel steps. To Arina on the chapel steps with the sleet making thin pink rivers down to the gutter. To the way Arina's mouth had fallen open, the lower lip slack against the stone. To her own fingers against the cool point of Arina's jaw and the wetness they had come away with, and how she'd told herself it was snow.
To Edik in her own bathtub. To his head fallen back against the tub. To his mouth a little open, dark inside, one of the lower tooth was wrong in a way she couldn't name.
Her breath caught. Two mouths. Both open.
Why was she thinking about the mouths?
The cold had reached deeper than she'd realised. Her hands were beyond shaking. She pressed them harder into the snow, but her numbed skin gave back no sensation.
A hand rested gently on her shoulder.
Idonea flinched, her head snapping up, but it was only Lysander.
He didn’t speak at first. He sank down into the snow beside her with subdued weight. His coat brushed hers; his breath misted close by. He lifted a hand and brushed away a snowflake caught on her eyelashes.
Her eyes slid closed. “What if Nellith is dead?” Her voice cracked on the last word.
His sigh misted through the cold. “Witchling. You don’t believe that.” He paused. “Not deep down.”
“I…” Her fingers went to her collarbone, pressing against the faint thrum of her own pulse. The heat of the Current still flickered there. “I don’t know what I believe right now.”
Her spiralling thoughts whispered the same refrain:
You failed her.
You were too slow.
Too weak.
You should've found her sooner.
You should've been stronger.
Lysander shifted closer, his presence a silent anchor. “You’re worn thin.”
She let out a trembling breath.
He stood and held out a hand. “Come. Let’s return. You need to keep your strength.”
Idonea stared at his hand. Then, she reached up and took it.
They didn’t need to take the basement passage back. The Templar stationed near the shed had vanished, footprints half-filled with fresh snow. Idonea didn’t question it. She didn’t have the strength to.
Lysander opened the cottage door, and as Idonea stepped over the threshold the world detonated inside her.
Something opened in her belly. She folded around it, a horrific, unrecognizable sound tearing from her throat.
Before she caught herself, her knees slammed into the floor. The impact shot up her legs, but it barely registered over the searing agony threading through every nerve.
Lysander cursed and slammed the door shut behind them.
Bile surged up her throat. She gagged, dry retching. Tears blurred her vision, hot and useless. Numbness tingled through her limbs like a swarm of needles.
A steady hand pressed between her shoulder blades.
“What’s wrong?” Lysander’s voice was slow.
Idonea tried to speak, but another heave tore up her throat, leaving only acid and a strangled rasp. Her fingers splayed against the hardwood as she fought to stay upright.
